


Entries of a Childhood Crime

by Always_this_Serious



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Awkward Romance, Child Abuse, Creepy Hisoka (Hunter X Hunter), Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family Drama, Family Issues, Family Shenanigans, Fluff and Angst, Major Original Character(s), Manipulative Relationship, Mutual Pining, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, POV Alternating, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Teen Romance, Unhealthy Relationships, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, not a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 71,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_this_Serious/pseuds/Always_this_Serious
Summary: "He was thirteen, young enough for curiosity to still get the better of him. She was eleven, and the nicest thing Illumi had ever seen." ~ Or, how innocent-enough feelings lead to the destructive, dangerous efforts Illumi confuses with love.
Relationships: Illumi Zoldyck/Original Character(s), Illumi Zoldyck/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 122
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

He was thirteen, young enough for curiosity to still get the better of him. She was eleven, and the nicest thing Illumi had ever seen.

But that hardly seems like the right place to start – the first meeting, leaving out all the hours Illumi had spent wondering about her beforehand.

A few times, his mother had shown him photographs, blurry things that looked too old to matter much. _The Flaminia family_. Like dolls. Illumi had stolen the photos away surreptitiously. Stowed them beneath his mattress. And as the weeks had turned to days had turned to hours, he had considered them with special interest. _The Flaminia family_. His parents had never hosted guests on Kukuroo Mountain before. He had never met anyone his own age before. And though he knew he should not have been so fascinated as he was, Illumi could not help the way he stared at the photographs or how he listened to his mother’s crooning: _Such a lovely little girl! And the twins, dazzling. Don’t you think so, Lumi? My dear? You’re sure to like them_.

She, such a ‘lovely little girl’, didn’t look like an assassin. Maybe that was the first thing Illumi noticed. Too small. Too smiley. Her siblings were harsh in the photographs – the twins, with razor-thin lips and venomous eyes – while the mothers – two of them, and no father, another curiosity to Illumi – looked on in a sort of smirking disdain. Pretty, certainly. A quintet of primped, peculiar things in lush material and glossy light.

Apparently they were excellent killers too: second to Illumi’s family, of course, but specializing in much flashier assassinations. Not as efficient as the Zoldycks; Illumi knew how impractical their methods were. However, it got the attention of high-ranking clients.

Mother also knew one of the Flaminias from childhood. Which was why they were coming to visit, supposedly, and why the children would train with Illumi and Milluki for a few weeks. Father told them both that the Flaminias likely wouldn’t be able to keep up with their usual training, and so things would be toned down for the duration of The Visit. Fortunately, it gave Father more time to spend on Killua, who was three then – unfortunately, Illumi wouldn’t be able to help. He would have to entertain the guests when they had free-time.

What did he know about spending time with children his age?

What was he supposed to do to keep the girl in the photograph – irritatingly sugar-sweet smile, too wide, too genuine – and her siblings ‘entertained’?

Grandfather suggested board games. Illumi didn’t like board games much. Milluki, ten years old, insisted on computer games. Illumi didn’t like computer games either.

The Visit drew nearer with unapologetic slowness, and Illumi spent one night too many stewing over the impending arrival. By now, the photographs were crinkled from his fingers’ probing. The girl’s face had become a familiar apparition, rearing itself intrusively and unexpectedly in Illumi’s mind. Sometimes when he woke up in the mornings. Always when he went to sleep, the nighttime darkness somehow full of a girl he hadn’t met yet.

Her name was Chiara.

Illumi didn’t think much of how she – the thought of her – made his stomach go weird.

Anyway.

That afternoon, the mansion was aflurry. The butlers were rather more harried than usual, making a bigger fuss about the mansion’s security and extra bedding and other issues of hospitality – generally doing a lesser job of staying out of Illumi’s way. Training had been called off for the day. Illumi wasn’t expected anywhere until dinnertime. And so he sought silence amongst the thick press of the garden, the grass crisp with the previous night’s rain, the trees a foreboding wall around him. From here, it was almost impossible to see the mansion, easy to imagine being lost. Hidden. It was a stupid thing Illumi liked to do sometimes: pretend he was missing.

Somewhere behind the trees, there was a hole he had started digging, and sometimes he would press himself into it. Small ball. Knees to chest, head to knees. He would dig until the hole was as deep as his thighs, then his stomach, then his shoulders, until he could stand straight and not have even the topmost part of his head exposed. What exactly the appeal was, he couldn’t say. But the cool was nice. The claustrophobic closeness of it. Being underground. As long as he didn’t get _too_ dirty or soil his wounds – Mother and Father wouldn’t bother treating the infections.

Illumi went there now, and sat at the edge of his hole. How much deeper would he have to dig before he wouldn’t be able to see the bottom? Would he be able to hold his breath long enough to bury himself? Probably. And how long would the butlers be made to leave him there? Long enough, it was likely, for his lungs to seethe and for the fantasy to become a little less enjoyable.

Mindlessly, Illumi plucked at the grass around him. Flimsy, wet. Muddy in places.

Nearby, there was the faint squelching of footsteps. It drew closer, and then receded. Drew closer again. Some time had passed, and Illumi thought that perhaps it was one of the butlers that had been sent to fetch him, to tell him his mother wanted him dressed and ready and waiting (on his bed, fancy pants had been laid out, and he was still supposed to wrap the gifts Mother had ordered for the twins). But nobody came, and so Illumi paid no attention to the sounds as they swelled and disappeared. Tap-tap-tap-nothing. Flutters of aura across Illumi’s skin, like pins and needles. Tap-tap-tap- _nothing_.

And then the voice was right behind him. “ _What-cha doing_?”

So close, he almost felt surprised, and struggled not to look so as he looked over his shoulder.

She was just as small as in her photographs, but undeniably older. Chiara Flaminia. Dress like a yellow dahlia. Face white and wide with curiosity, two braids tumbling like wisteria down her shoulders. Nothing of the assassin – shockingly out of place against the dense green-blackness of the trees, pale as a pearl in shards of sunlight.

Illumi stared.

Chiara Flaminia cocked her head sweetly. “Are you Illumi-kun?”

“Yes.”

She smiled small. “I’m Chiara.”

“I know.”

“You’re all alone. Are you waiting for somebody?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She seemed oddly delighted; her smile curled deeper into a rosy bow (and at the sight of it, Illumi’s stomach sizzled strangely). “Well then,” she said, “do you want to play hide-and-seek with me? My brother is counting to four hundred. We could hide in that hole together.” She looked around. “Or somewhere else. You probably know all the best hiding spots, right? Your garden is very big. I bet we could hide somewhere my brother won’t find us for _ages_. Hmm? Do you want to?”

The more Illumi looked at her, the more a sick, dizzy feeling reared itself within him. Pressing outwards through his ribcage. Rising like bile into his throat. _So this was her_ , he realised. _This was her._ Small nose like a seashell. Raised eyebrows like a curious deer. He didn’t like the way she looked at him – like he was as much a plaything to her as she was a doll to him. He didn’t like the wordless shock of this first meeting. An accident. A few hours too early (why were they here so soon?), probably more unprepared than his parents would have liked. Than _he_ would have liked. And so Illumi did the only reasonable thing.

He clasped a fistful of dirt. He threw.

And before he could see the look on Chiara Flaminia’s face, Illumi made a run for it.


	2. Chapter 2

All evening, Illumi stared at her. It was hard not to. Like she was the moon, face wide and white and close enough to touch.

However, swept up by his mother's attention – Mother had always wanted a girl, twirling her braids and squeezing her cheeks –Chiara Flaminia hardly met Illumi's eye. When she did, it was with a low blush. A reserved smile. And just as quickly, she'd always look away. There was the clink of glasses and crockery across the table; flurries of restless energy beneath the honey-golden light of the dining room. And though everything glittered with an odd sense of festivity, Illumi saw it, heard it, tasted it all through a numb blur.

He sat between the twins: Tadashi and Datari, who both smelled of citrus blossoms and were much more interested in each other than they were in him.

Datari, a cold beauty of plum-dark hair and fidgeting fingers, largely pretended that Illumi wasn't there at all. Despite how their respective mothers threw telling glances their way. Despite how wretchedly close together the two of them had been pushed, almost shoulder to bony shoulder. Tadashi, the only boy in the family, though so much of a copy of Datari it was easy to mistake him for a girl, was quiet and intent as a cat. Every now and then he would turn to Illumi, looking as though to speak. But there would only be a suspicious twist in his features. A purse to his stupidly thin lips. Then his gaze would pass away.

The dinner plates were cleared; the remains of glazed pork and potatoes and bright, fruity salads were carried off. Across the table, Mother dabbed at Milluki's fat lips with a napkin. Chiara fiddled with her spoon, glancing between the adults as they spoke about adult-things. She didn't look nearly so disinterested as her sullen set of siblings; instead, she _oohed_ and _ah-hahed_ and nodded sweetly to herself, as though she were perfectly well-involved in the conversation – little girl pretending to be a young lady, with her fresh dress and flushed cheeks.

It was terribly endearing.

Illumi hated it.

He hated Tadashi and Datari.

He thought maybe he hated Chiara too. That the bubbling feeling in his stomach was because of some instinctual, diabolic feeling.

And yet, he couldn't deny the urge to _say something_. Something, anything, to get her attention – shock her, thrill her, scare her – just so that she would look at him. So that she would stop paying so much attention to Milluki as he obnoxiously demanded her interest. So that she would stop grinning conspiratorially at her siblings. So that _he_ could have her to himself for just a moment, like he'd had her in the garden.

(Before he'd thrown mud at her).

(For which he was absolutely not embarrassed).

But dessert went by, and Illumi only watched with biting irritation as Milluki shoved a gift into Chiara's lap, as she thanked him – genuine and bold. Datari didn't really seem to care about the hairclip Illumi had wrapped for her. Which was fair. He didn't really care much for it either, though their shared indifference visibly disappointed their parents. Tea was served and taken away. More tea was served, then wine for the adults. Through it all, Illumi only stewed, swallowing on words that dangled deviously at the edge of his tongue. Even just to say her name – _Chi~a~ra_. Or better still, to swap seats with Milluki (bribe him, pinch him, stab him, anything would do).

Alas, the night was over before Illumi could work out a plan; and Chiara left for bed without him even being able to tell her goodnight.

Or that he was sorry about having dirtied her yellow dress.

* * *

A week passed. Illumi learned three things.

In the first place, technique meant nothing to the Flaminias – it was all about performance: dancing more than fighting, dazzling rather than attacking. Training sessions were decorated with glitzy footwork, movements strange and pretty as melting cream. Quick hands. Posed and poised. Of course, they made stupid mistakes. They dragged out fights for far too long, diving into attacks like swans and then retreating unnecessarily. And Illumi, stupidly, _almost_ fell for it.

The twins came _so close_ to laying their hands on him. And they hadn't even started with weaponry yet, weren't even using their Nen. Father noticed it; Illumi, with a pang of dread, knew what was coming to him for such sloppiness, such distractibility. Tadashi and Datari noticed it too, and smiled distastefully at Illumi around every corner. Was that supposed to be part of it all? The sniggering. The faces they pulled behind his back for who-knew-what-reason. They whispered to each other, clung to each other, bounced off each other like poisons. As though they actually wanted Illumi to despise them.

"Have you seen the way he stares?" he'd heard them say. "It's creepy."

"I've seen corpses look more animated."

"What is Mommy thinking? You can't marry him! Imagine what it'll be like to kiss him, like smacking lips with a fish."

"Eww, Dashi!"

That was the second thing.

Apparently their parents wanted to arrange a marriage.

To which Illumi was in no position to object, much as it may have taken him by surprise. If that's what his parents expected of him, that's the way it would be – he was, after all, responsible for continuing the Zoldyck line. And Datari was an obvious choice for that. Lineage. Aura. Skill. _The obvious choice_. But if it was Illumi's choice – which it certainly wasn't, he reminded himself – he would sooner gouge out his own eyes than marry her. He may have been as lively as a corpse, but she was about as agreeable as one. And that was apart from the fact that marriage had hardly even crossed Illumi's mind before then. Now it stared him in the face, garish and off-putting.

At the end of the week, eager to be away, Illumi retreated to his spot in the garden. Clouds hung languidly in thick, twisting greys, and cast an eerie dullness about the trees. Closer to the mansion, Mother and the Flaminia women were having tea together – lacey parasols; sprawling hats, with flowers and feathers; lipstick on their teacups. If there was one thing Illumi did like about the Flaminias, it was their clothes. Soft, puffed, pretty things that made them look like a set of china dolls. Frilly as fox-gloves in pastels and jewel tones.

Along the tree-line and amongst the shrubs, dandelions and bindweeds twisted brightly outwards. Some close enough for Illumi to pluck. He did so, and pulled dully so that the petals tore like paper.

He'd felt her staring at him for a while already – that familiar aura prickling faintly – and he was almost relieved when she stepped out from the trees' obscurity.

"Are those the only flowers in this forest?" Chiara asked, voice a bell.

"No."

"Will you show me where the others are?"

"No."

She frowned at him.

Across her cheek, a bruise splotched itself brilliantly where Illumi had kicked her a few days ago – hard and deliberate, having made her siblings gasp deliciously. He'd thought it would quell the funny feelings in his stomach and chest to hurt her. And for a moment, it had, seeing the confusion with which she'd looked at him. No tears. No response at all, really. Just a quiet, deeply personal shock. But the satisfaction had faded quickly, and now Illumi stared at her blue cheek with even greater funny feeling than before.

Decidedly, Chiara came closer. Closer still, until she was right across from Illumi. Her toes – shockingly bare – curled over the edge of the hole. "Tari doesn't like you very much."

Illumi shrugged.

"Neither does Dashi," she added.

"I don't like them either."

"And me?"

"I have no opinion of you."

Tiny, tulip-limbed, twinkling Chiara.

She hummed. "Okay. Fine. Then I have no opinion of you either."

For the first time that week, Illumi felt a pull in the corners of his lips. From the expression on her face, it was hard to tell what exactly she was hoping for. As much as her mouth was set in a sharp line, there was a peculiar glint to the rest of her features that made Illumi wonder if this was supposed to be a game. "I see. Is that why you followed me here?" he asked, and stood. "Seems silly."

Chiara looked surprised. "I didn't follow you ~ I got bored at tea and came to find the hole."

"And now that you've found it?"

"Dunno. I'm figuring it out as I go."

" _Silly_."

She cocked her head, and flashed Illumi a smile. "You want to know what else is silly, Illumi-kun?"

No moment for him to answer. The movement was quick and viperish: her hand slicing downwards into the dirt, drawing upwards again with liquid smoothness. Then there was mud, landing with a squelch. And Chiara was dashing back into the forest in a flurry of delighted laughter. And Illumi only stood there, dumb and mute over the dirt across his chest, staring after Chiara as she weaved doeishly between the trees. Disappearing. Reappearing, grinning in expectation.

"You're weird," she said, "and very mean. You didn't need to kick me so hard the other day. Or throw mud at me."

"It was nothing personal–"

"I like you though~"

"Huh?"

She giggled, the sound like molten sugar and popping bubbles. A warmth reared itself in Illumi's cheeks, and for a long few moments, he forgot entirely about the mud on his shirt and about the twins and about the fact that his staring was supposedly creepy. And staring at her, the way her mouth bowed into such a funny shape, or how her nose crinkled as she stared back at him – not like Tadashi and Datari's sour expressions, but with such glossy softness it was hard to stomach – Illumi had the oddest impulse to touch her. To step forward and reach for the purple curls of her hair or the flowery ruffles on her dress, to see that silly smile up close. Was it supposed to be for him, the way she smiled? Or was she mocking him?

In a darting movement, Chiara spun on her toes. "See you later, Lumi-kun. I'm going to find flowers for Missus Kikyo ~ maybe you can help me next time, if you want."

Gone. Just like that. Illumi sighed and smeared his hand over his shirt, spreading the mess as though it were his heart's blood. This was the third thing Illumi learned that week: that there were certain feelings his training had yet to beat out of him. He could stomach pain. The absolute worst of it. He could take needles through his veins and chains down his back. But _this_ – this wasn't pain. Close enough to it, but also… nice. Illumi didn't know how to handle nice: the sensation of some winged creature unfurling itself in the hollows of his ribcage. The fuzzy flurry that travelled down his neck and limbs. The way it felt to hear Chiara say she liked him.

God... something was wrong with him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everybody! Thank you for following along with me thus far. As you will notice, the chapters to come are going to alternate between Illumi and Chiara's teenage years and the 'present day' (starting here, with the Hunter Exam arc and… well… I'm kind of aggressively winging this, so we'll see where it goes). Anyways – enjoy, lovelies! Feedback is always tremendously appreciated. xx

_Present Day_

She always waited up for him, no matter how much he told her not to.

Coming home before midnight was rare for Illumi – the lights in the mansion extinguished, everything sleepy and still – and out of both necessity and preference, it was almost always on purpose. Jobs left him tired, heavy with the toll of being numbed and bloodied. Weeks on end. Not missing home. Staying away was, naturally, very easy; it was coming back – back to intimate scents and textures, to a bed moulded with his shape – that proved problematic. Every time Illumi returned home, a little bit of his composure crumbled.

For it struck him with an odd longing, a skewed sense of homesickness. Fatigue and various hungers only made the feeling more potent, unignorable as the burn of swallowing down on spirits. And so, coming home, Illumi needed a little time – a few hours – to pull himself together again, to sow back the fractures and hairline cracks in his skin.

It was why he told Chiara not to wait for him.

But did she listen?

Maybe this time. _Maybe this time_. But no – it was well into the hours of the morning, and Illumi opened their bedroom door to find her at the dressing table. Everything was a mess, as usual. The bedsheets, thrown around restlessly. Clothing strewn across the floor and furniture in disastrous trails of florals and fur, peacock blues and jade and shades of purple. Weeks-old roses languished on the bedside table amongst a disorder of open medicine bottles, their smells forceful and mingling with the scent of perfume. And amongst it all, Chiara lazed with her cheek in her hand, somnolent and mussed.

However, seeing Illumi, she brightened. "Lumi! You're home!"

"Hello."

She was up with a peculiar lightness, and ghosted across the room to meet him. Her gown hung and fluttered, butterfly-like, about her limbs. Her hands clasped softly at the cast around Illumi's arm. "You got hurt~" she cooed, seeming more amused than she did concerned. "I can't remember you ever having broken a bone before." Then her arms were around his shoulders, feather light and warm. "You were gone for longer than you said you'd be. Again."

He made no show of how nice it felt. To feel her like this after weeks away, to smell her hair as she pressed her face to his neck. Only for a moment did he relish it, reclining into her just so before making to push her away again – hands in her waist, feeling her resist the motion as she stiffened, held onto him tighter.

Illumi sighed. "You've lost weight. Again."

"No," she cooed in return, shaking her head. "You just keep forgetting what I look like."

"That's silly of you to say."

"How was the Hunters Exam?"

"Oh, eventful."

"I hear Killua was disqualified."

"Have you been to see him since he came home?"

At this, Chiara pulled away, though her arms remained in a delicate loop about Illumi's neck. She gazed up at him, expression a curious question mark. "No," she said carefully. "Should I have been? I think Milluki-kun has been keeping him very… busy. They have a lot of catching up to do, you know? Milluki-kun was still upset about how Killua stabbed him." She cocked her head. "Are you going to see him? I'm not sure he'll really want you to, from what Mother told me."

Shrugging out of her hold, Illumi said, "Perhaps in the morning." Much as he knew she was right. "For now, I have some things to do around the mansion. I'll be a while."

"Now?"

"Yes."

Chiara pouted. "But it's so late, Lumi."

"Yes, which is why you should be fast asleep already." A little charmed, a little impatient, Illumi brushed a strand of hair from Chiara's forehead. It fell right back out of place, a pale purple slash against her skin. "You haven't taken your medicine for tonight, I assume," he said. "It would have knocked you right out."

"I've taken it."

"Don't lie to me."

"Then don't go." Chiara slipped her hands into his – at least, the hand that wasn't in a cast – a coquettish smile twisting itself into her lips. "Sit with me, tell me about the Exam. I'm so curious. You can do whatever else you have to do in the morning–"

"It's already the morning."

"Well, then when the sun's up." Drifting backwards towards the bed, wordlessly beckoning for Illumi to follow. Her voice dropped to a low, honeyed tone, " _Please_?"

But Illumi held fast to his place in the doorway. "Chiara."

"Hmm?"

"I said I have things to do."

Perhaps at the severity of his tone, perhaps with the disappointment of being told no – nineteen though she may have been, she still sulked when things didn't go her way – the smile faded, just a little. "Oh. Oh, okay. I was – just – okay," she murmured, and let go of his hand. "Sorry." A pause, the space between them thin and precarious. Chiara fiddled with the sash of her gown, looking away and back again. Away and back again. Dark circles stained crescents beneath her lids. Through them, her eyes' foggy greys glowed luminously. "I missed you, Illumi. So much."

He sighed again. This. This loveliness was what made it so very nettlesome to come home. Restrained – and, in that, gentle – Illumi cocooned her cheek in his hand, and leaned forward to touch a kiss to the small plane between her brows. "Don't be upset," he said. "I brought something back for you. A present."

"Ooh," Chiara cooed, forgetting her surliness. "A present ~ let me see."

"Sleep first. You can have it in the morning."

"Fine."

Illumi dished out her medicines, and she swallowed them unresistingly before slinking into the bedsheets. He left her then. For some hours after, he lingered in the shower, in the corridors, staring through windows into the clumpy darkness of the garden. Each minute, unoccupied with anything significant, he wanted to return to the bedroom – to satiate the possessive confusion of feeling that the thought of her provoked. But it was necessary, he reminded himself. This distance was necessary for now.

And so he delayed. Until eerie glows of orange sunrise began to silhouette the trees. Until drowsiness clawed through him with a fuzzy, enticing weight. By the time Illumi did return, Chiara had twisted herself fixedly amongst the bedsheets – hair a cloud on the pillow, lashes rushing with deep, fast sleep.

* * *

Little was said regarding the Hunters Exam at breakfast the next morning. Really, little was said about anything much at all. On days Chiara didn't join them, the dining table generally remained quiet and undemonstrative – and so it was today.

Illumi, refreshed by his two hours' sleep, hadn't woken Chiara. She'd barely stirred when he ran his fingers over her shoulders, across the juncture between her collar bone and neck. Though she had hummed when he traced his tongue along the shape of her earlobe, her eyes had remained dreamy and closed. Missing breakfast would probably annoy her. But who was Illumi to have disturbed such a pretty rest?

Between bites of grilled fish and rice, Mother mentioned various things – a dress-maker would be coming later that day, with special silks for Chiara and Kalluto to choose from (more material for Chiara to splay across their bedroom floor); the doctor's prognosis regarding Mother's injuries was good, and the bandages would be removed in some weeks ( _still, she cannot believe how Killua has grown, her baby assassin!_ ); another letter arrived for Chiara while Illumi was gone, this time from Tadashi (the letter was in Mother's drawer for Illumi to read later).

"She's also teaching me a dance," Kalluto added, a little sheepish, chopsticks held to his mouth. "With fans. You should watch sometime, Illumi."

"Maybe," Illumi said.

"We'll have kimonos made for you both." Mother, with hyperbolic delight, stroked at Kalluto's hair. "Maybe something for spring. Illumi, wouldn't Chiara look so lovely in another kimono? After your wedding, I've been eager to arrange one for her."

"Yes. She would."

"Silva, darling, what do you think?"

It seemed the most pointless thing to ask Father about dressing. Curiously, Illumi glanced to the head of the table – harsh and absorbed, thoughts brewing tenaciously behind those familiar irises, Father was already staring back. "Very nice," he said, the words loaded and ready. "Speaking of our daughter-in-law, there's something I need to discuss with you, Illumi. After we've eaten."

So they ate.

They had tea.

And when Mother left with Kalluto in tow, a profound insistence to their rush, Illumi waited.

Under any other circumstances, he would have expected a conversation about Killua. That was, after all, the only thing he spoke about with Father: Killua's training, Killua's inheritance, Killua's foolishness and foolhardiness. Other topics were few and far between; as much as Father was fond of Chiara – the only real daughter, soft with her as one would be with glass – it was more Mother's style to pry into so-called 'matters of the heart'. How were things progressing with Chiara's family? How were things progressing with Chiara's health?

More importantly, how were things progressing with their sex life and when would Illumi be giving her grandchildren?

Pouring more tea, Father cleared his throat. "She's lost weight again."

"I know."

"Perhaps wafting around the mansion isn't so good for her as you might think."

Illumi blinked once, twice more. "What do you mean, Father?"

"I am not concerned with putting this delicately, of course – but you and Chiara appear to have no interest in children as yet." Sipping from his cup, Father seemed to expect an answer. None came. "Which is understandable," he continued, "given the circumstances, despite what your Mother may say. You've only been married for a few months now, after all. But if you are going to be taking your time, it would be worth considering that we give your wife something more to do than wait for you to come home."

"She's brought this up with you, hasn't she?"

"She's brought it up with Grandfather."

"And?"

"He agrees."

A sour taste spread through Illumi's throat. "She's in no condition–"

"No _physical_ condition," Father said, and shot Illumi a decisive look. "But her Nen ability provides some interesting opportunity. She could accompany you on jobs, if you insist on being difficult about it. At least until things change with regards to your... situation."

To be confronted with such absurd suggestions left a tight, scraping sensation inside of him. Chiara was sick. Chiara was small. Chiara was _his, his, his_ – and if Illumi chose to keep her stowed away in the mansion, bundled amongst beautiful things like a fragile treasure, for his eyes only, then it would be so. But right then, he was in no position to insist upon anything. Father told him to 'think about it', and he was dismissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just btw, with Killua being 11 during the Hunters Exam arc, Illumi would be about 21 here. Oki - byee.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Datari–_

Illumi had started out diligently enough, scratching at paper after paper in an attempt to write to his apparent wife-to-be. Mother wanted them to stay in touch, and thought it would be a good idea for Illumi to send her letters. To thank her for the visit. _It was nice meeting you_. Nonsense. But necessary nonsense, if they were going to get married.

_Dear Datari–_

Only, Illumi had nothing to say to Datari whatsoever. Nothing, other than that she had the personality of a salted slug and that he was relived she was gone. That he didn't ever want to see her again. Why Mother didn't just write the letters for him, Illumi couldn't say. It would have been easier for everybody: he wouldn't have to waste his time at the writing desk, Mother wouldn't have to suffer through editing his poor attempts at being charming. "Compliment her, Illumi! Don't sound so dull. God, you stupid boy," she moaned, ripping the page from its pad and tossing it aside. "Start again. And write something nice this time."

Illumi had nothing nice to say to Datari whatsoever. And so while he scribbled, slow and reluctant – handwriting a boyish hieroglyph – his attention slipped towards the realm of unexpected, not entirely unwelcome imaginings. Outwardly, Illumi dictated what his Mother told him to (he complimented Datari's abilities and said she'd make a good assassin, which wasn't a lie at least); within himself, he counted the lines until the end of the page, and pondered the possibility of writing another letter _not_ meant for Datari.

After all, if he was already expending all this time and energy, he might as well have.

Ink stained Illumi's fingers like swirling, black bruises. Mother insisted he restart the letter one final time before she whisked it away, folding it neatly into an envelope and dashing out the room in a fluttering, glossy impatience. Illumi stared after her, sullen with relief. And when she didn't return, he turned back to the writing pad.

_Dear Chiara–_

He stared. He sighed. This had been easier in his head.

_Dear Chiara–_

And then? Then what was he supposed to say? He couldn't tell her she'd make a good assassin; not because he'd already written that for Datari, but also because he didn't believe it one bit. But could he tell her that even though she was too small and too soft and too sweet, he didn't mind? That he liked all those things? Even if they'd only spoken a few times. Even if he sort of wanted to snap her in half, he also wanted to bundle her away in cotton – seal her in a jar, like a butterfly, and put her on his shelf to look at every morning and night.

He didn't think he'd be able to tell her that. But the longer he stewed over the blank page, the more his ribcage seemed to swell. The more words evaded him.

Eventually, he scratched out her name and threw the entire writing pad into the bin.

* * *

Two letters came for Illumi a few days later. One was, of course, the reply from Datari – the envelope scented with fruity perfume, Illumi's name scrawled across the front in aggressive loops. Mother made him read this one first, out loud for her and Milluki, before she handed him the other one. They watched from the settee as he opened it, waited as he felt his pulse rise violently into his throat.

It was a pretty handwriting, though almost completely illegible in its oddly shaped letters and smooshed spacing. Reciting it, Illumi had to backtrack several times – though really, he couldn't blame it on the form as much as he could on the way his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his head growing ever lighter the further down the page he went.

_Hello Illumi Zoldyck !!_

_I wanted to send you a letter too and here it is!! I have never sent a letter  
before so I hope I do it right. Mommy says I should say thank you for letting  
us stay with you. So Thank you!! And how are you ??  
_

_Datari gave me the hairclip you gave her. I wear it every Wednesday ~ not  
everyday because I have other hairclips that I need to wear. But Wednesday  
is my favourite day and I've never gotten a gift before so I wear the hairclip  
on Wednesdays!! But I already wrote that._

_There were lots of questions I wanted to ask you when we were visiting but  
you were always super busy training and stuff so I didn't get to. Would it be  
okay if I ask them now ?? (that's my first question. I guess I will have to wait  
for you to reply though ~ please reply quick quick!)_

_I hope you don't think this letter is weird... It has been an hour already  
and I don't know what else to say :)_

_Ok ~ Bye !!_

_* From Chiara Flaminia *_

_ps... when you weren't looking I dug the hole in your garden deeper... I  
can stand in it without seeing over the top, I think it's nice that you have  
such a interesting spot to play in. Our garden has too many flowers and so  
I would never be allowed to dig a hole like that :) Bye_

Illumi omitted the last part. Not to say his family didn't know about the hole in the garden, of course – he only liked to pretend they didn't. More than that, he almost wanted to pretend now that it was his and Chiara's secret alone, if one could have secrets with near-strangers, and that something unspoken had been established between them. A contract. An understanding. The hole in the garden was a little less Illumi's spot now and a little more hers.

Mother clapped her hands together. "My, my!" she crooned. "Wasn't that precious? Illumi, just look at you. You're blushing."

"No, I'm not."

"You are," Milluki said. "And you look stupid. Why did _you_ get a letter from her and not me? You didn't even read it well."

Mother looked surprised. "You didn't write to her."

"Neither did Illu-nii!"

Folding the letter back into its envelope, clutching it to himself, Illumi looked his brother in the eye. Even he could realise Milluki was jealous: the way he seethed more than breathed, sulking as though he'd been deprived of something essential. Likewise, Illumi couldn't deny that it made him a little possessive, the feeling ugly and distracting. Deadpan, with all intentions of wounding, he said, "Maybe she just doesn't like fat boys."

Milluki made a vile sound. " _Mama_!" he screeched. "He called me _fat_! Make him take it back. Make him sorry!"

"I didn't call you fat. I just said–"

"Stop being childish." Mother's lips downturned into a red gash across her jaw. "You _are_ fat, Milluki. And you, Illumi – you have a letter to write before training this evening." She rose from the settee, brushing out the lap of her kimono. "Come. You can hand those to me, and I will put them in my drawer."

Greedier still, Illumi held Chiara's letter a little tighter, careful not to crumple the envelope. "I'd like to keep this one."

"Oh? And Datari's?"

"No."

"Just Chiara-chan's?"

"Yes."

"Well now," Mother's frown deepened, "that's a very strange thing to do, don't you think?"

Illumi didn't know what to say, and so he said nothing. For a long while, they stared at each other – not quite hostile as much as they were bemused. Indeed, Illumi could feel that puzzling warmth in his face, in his neck, sneaking wider and brighter the longer he clasped Chiara's letter. Surely, this was fine. He could admit it was strange, the feeling of it. But what harm could there have been? Why did Mother look at him like that, like the ground could have split open and she wouldn't have been any more surprised?

It left Ilumi with a vague anxiety, until at last Mother cracked a slant of a smile. She didn't speak, but laughed – a sound which always teetered precariously between being lovely and cruel. It only confused Illumi more; he didn't see what on earth could have been funny.

"Silly boy," Mother said. "I suppose you're going to want to write something for Chiara-chan too, then?"

What would she say if he told her he'd already tried?

"Not necessarily, Mother."

"I want to!" Milluki butted in, and lunged clumsily from his seat. There was something stupidly desperate about the way he said it. "Let me write to Chiara-chan."

" _No_. You're _not allowed_ ," Illumi spat – and Mother only laughed once again.

* * *

A week went by. Two. Three. Illumi kept the letter hidden somewhere Milluki's sausage-fat fingers wouldn't go prying, where even he himself would have a hard time reaching it again.

As time passed, Chiara's words and her squashed, curly handwriting became blurred in Illumi's memory. Still, he remembered the feeling. The more he thought about it, the more it mounted to ever more piercing levels of clarity – the nature of which Illumi had no vocabulary to describe. It remained an enigma, an undiscovered disease, weighing uncomfortably into the depths of his chest and making his stomach spin – but in a nice way, like being tickled from the inside out.

Not that Illumi knew very well what being tickled felt like. But sometimes Killua – with his baby laugh and delighted, delightful eyes – would poke his fingers into Illumi's side. _Tickles! Tickles!_ That made Illumi feel rather the same way as he felt now.

Partly, he had hoped that hiding the letter would help to starve out the things it stirred.

For the same reason, he never wrote back.

Four weeks vanished. Five. Six. Letters from Datari continued to trickle in: bland, formal things, beneath which there simmered something churlish and reluctant. Nothing more came from Chiara. Not for Illumi, although Milluki had written and received responses. He flaunted them at every opportunity. And as much as Illumi pretended not to care, it made him sick with an inky, clawing, ireful jealousy.

"Is Datari well?" Father asked one evening at dinner.

"Yes," Illumi said.

"And Chiara?"

He paused. He swallowed the feeling. "I don't know."

To which Milluki simpered. "Yes, she _is_ doing well. She told _me_ so." He turned his gaze to Illumi. "Do you want to know what else she told me?"

"Not really."

"Good. Because I wasn't going to tell you anyway."

"You're being mean!" Killua cried, and pointed accusingly. "Don't be mean to big bro!"

Seven weeks. Two months. Three. Still no more letters from Chiara – and no matter how Illumi scoured the mansion, he could never find the ones Milluki had received. So this was what it was to writhe. It dismayed him. _Illumi Zoldyck did not writhe_. _Illumi Zoldyck did not want_. But he couldn't forget about her. Didn't want to. Finally, he relented – in the unholy hours of the morning, barefoot and breathing hard in Father's study, Illumi wrote in a mad dash. His handwriting was even clumsier than usual. Mother and Father would probably be furious that he was awake past curfew.

_Dear Chiara,_

_I've been thinking about–_

No. That was stupid.

He started again.

_Hello Chi–_

No.

Illumi clutched the pencil firmly enough for his hand to hurt and made a disgusted noise at the paper. Then he started again. Checking his spelling. Half-hating himself.

_Dear Chiara–_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where do you guys think Illumi and Milluki hid their letters?
> 
> See you next time! As always, feedback is tremendously appreciated. xx


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, got a bit carried away with this chapter. Guess that's what happens when I should be doing assignments but would really rather not be.

Autumn came in spice colours and biting winds. Back on Kukuroo Mountain, everything retained a dull, dead tinge – though many of the trees were evergreen, they seemed to darken listlessly; the grass shriveled to bland pinpricks, and the light hued itself in some precarious, purgatorial shade of white. Autumn had never been a particularly outstanding season to Illumi.

And so he was taken by surprise – almost flabbergasted – when he was confronted with the brilliant jewel tones of the Flaminias' garden.

It wasn't nearly as big as at the mansion, but it burst relentlessly with floral textures and shades. There were tissue-pink dahlias, and splotched blue crocuses. Glowing white morning glories unfurled along the pathways, beneath arches of curling vines and flaming leaves. Everything shimmered. The smell of flowers half-invigorated, half-nauseated Illumi as he and Mother and Grandfather followed a servant down a path to the front door. No one commented on it, but the feeling was very different here to back at home. Not exactly better – Illumi couldn't shake the sense that something ominous crept up on them through the garden's disorientating glaze.

Or maybe he was just nervous.

Though that would be childish.

The Flaminia mothers waited for them in the doorway. Dahlena, who could not hide her muscular bulk under any amount of feminine clothing, and Kei, who was thin and nervy as a race horse and always wore purple lipstick. Kei was the one Mother had grown up with – the two of them kissed at each other's cheeks primly. _Welcome. So lovely to have you_.

Inside, they were led to a drawing room with elaborate wallpaper and an oppressively ornate ceiling. More flowers on all the side tables. Tea and fancy cookies, silk blankets thrown over the seats. Somewhere, servants were taking their bags to the rooms they'd be staying in. Though they would only be here for a week, Mother had insisted on packing a month's worth of clothing (more uncomfortable, too-tight, itchy outfits meant to impress Datari). Father hadn't come along; he was on a job, and had taken Killua along. Milluki was made to stay home, by which Illumi was wickedly pleased.

No one had told Illumi why Grandfather had decided to come. He didn't question it.

"I'm sorry the twins aren't here to greet you," Kei said, pouring tea. Her hands were like white rose buds, clasping the teacups delicately. "They're currently with their music teacher."

"We weren't expecting you until this evening," Dahlena added.

Mother laughed. "Sorry to say, darling, but your estate isn't so difficult to navigate as you might think. We had no trouble finding our way here."

"So it would seem. And what do you think of the grounds?"

"Lovely."

"You might have noticed that we keep a generous collection of poisonous perennials. You are welcome to take some for yourself, if you'd like."

She, Dahlena, had a voice like cracking glass that reminded Illumi distinctly of the twins, though it was without the same careful poise. An odd looking woman, too: some wrong combination of soft cheeks and a rigged jaw, pouty lips and icy eyes. And unlike Kei, whose hands were carved to be fine and precise, Dahlena seemed like the type to slowly and gratuitously throttle targets like one would a particularly stubborn weed.

According to Grandfather though, she wasn't the one to watch out for.

For the most part, Illumi stayed quiet. Spoke when spoken to. Drank cautiously at his tea and snuck clandestine stares at Dahlena and Kei – he searched their faces, made up of cosmetics and eyebrows plucked too thin, for any traces of Chiara. He'd spent so long over her photo. She should have been an easy memory. And yet, Illumi couldn't find her anywhere in Dahlena's boxy harshness; couldn't reconcile her with Kei's viperish aplomb.

Only one thing seemed obviously the same: the sing-song way with which Kei said Illumi's name.

"Illumi-kun," she smiled, "Datari's been so looking forward to seeing you." Lies. "She and Tadashi should be finishing up soon. Wouldn't you like to go find them? If that's alright, Kikyo. Zeno-san."

Grandfather waved his hand dismissively. "Go."

Illumi didn't need to be told when he wasn't wanted. He rose, tea unfinished and cookies untouched, and he left out the door through which they'd first come. He turned down passageways, wondering which way the twins would be before purposefully going in the opposite directions. It was a maze of a place, and much more glamorously decorated than the mansion – though messier too. There were plants and flowers at every turn, growing animal-like from their pots. Pelts hung along the walls. Wineglasses, mysteriously smudged with lipstick and fingerprints, lingered on windowsills, their contents dried up and staining like blood.

Every now and then, Illumi would catch the echoing sound of some soprano-ing instrument, and he'd turn away to find himself down a new passageway. He would not admit he was lost. But nothing looked familiar – new items of gaudy furniture squeezed into odd corners, new scents of expensive perfume, new footsteps tapping along behind him.

 _Tap-tap-tap_. Pause. _Taptaptap_. Pause. _Tap-tap-tap._

Stopping, Illumi looked back. Nothing moved.

"I know you're there."

And then the nothing became a something, curling out from behind the window's heavy drapes in a slow, sheepish reluctance and a blue dress. Chiara stared at him, a wide-eyed little ghost, and Illumi's heart did that thing again.

"I – umm – I wasn't sure if you were lost," she said, by way of an excuse. "Are you looking for my sister?"

"No. I'm just looking."

"Oh. Okay."

They paused. Chiara looked down to her feet, to the windows, to the walls – anywhere, it seemed, but at Illumi. She was embarrassed. And yet, she had followed him. For how long? For what reason? Illumi would have asked; only, he couldn't find the words. Perhaps he didn't really care to know. Perhaps he really was just as stupid as Mother told him he was – couldn't even talk to a girl, much as he may have wanted to.

Strange, that she wasn't talking either. When the Flaminias had come to Kukuroo Mountain, it had been difficult to get her to _stop_. Now, Illumi willed her to say something. A greeting. A question – he didn't mind her questions. He had even grown to like them, all those months ago. _Do you like board games, Illumi-kun? Have you ever tasted champagne, Illumi-kun? Would you like to go for a walk with me, Illumi-kun?_ Such insignificant things, and she made them seem marvelous. She'd said in her letter that she had questions – so what did Illumi have to do to make her ask them?

Lifting a hand to rub at his nape, he sighed. "Will you show me where my room is?" he asked, also by way of an excuse.

"Okay."

Chiara turned and began a tip-toe down the passage. Illumi followed – some way behind her at first, and then more boldly coming close, closer, until he walked next to her. She barely reached his shoulder. She had a funny bounce to her walk.

"You're quiet," Illumi said.

"Oh? I am? Sorry."

"Is it because I didn't reply to your letter?"

He didn't know why he would suggest that; really, he was halfway to convincing himself that Chiara hadn't thought very much about the letters at all. Still slipping onwards, she blinked up at him in surprise. Colour blotched itself into her cheeks. "No – I didn't – didn't really think you'd send one back anyway. So that doesn't matter."

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Wait for a moment."

They stopped, and Illumi reached into his pocket. He'd spent days working on the thing, and by the time he'd gotten it right, the butlers had already started packing bags for the Visit. Still, he was in two minds about it. Still, he held out the envelope in offering. Chiara seemed to hesitate, suspended somewhere between a gasp and a frown. She made a move to take it, and then withdrew uncertainly. "For me?" she confirmed, fingers fidgeting. "Really?"

"It took longer than it should have."

"But–"

"Just take it. Don't read it now though. Later."

"Why?"

Illumi couldn't explain to her that _he_ was embarrassed. And so he only shrugged, feigning indifference. "Nevermind that. Just read it later. For now–" he prompted. "You were showing me to my room. Can we get a move on?"

Plucking the letter, Chiara cocked her head – a gingerly question mark of an expression which cracked into a smile. Perhaps not knowing what that smile did to him (or knowing it exactly), she said nothing for a while, lingering there in some charmed state of pleasure or relief. When at last she did speak, it was testing and soft. "Milluki-kun said you threw my letter away." She glanced to the envelope in her hands and back to Illumi, cheeks like sunny lotuses. "Did you?"

"Don't believe the things Milluki tells you."

"Thank goodness." There was that peculiar bounce as she began again down the passage. "He says weird things. I never know what to say back."

Illumi stayed next to her. "Weird things like?"

"Just weird things."

"I can tell him to stop, if you'd like."

"But then no one would write to me."

"I would."

"Would you write back quickly though?"

A fair question. "Maybe not quickly. I'm usually very busy."

"Mommy says you already do lots of jobs. You're only thirteen and yet you're already a real assassin."

"Yes. Aren't you?"

"No. I hardly ever leave the estate."

"That's good."

Chiara didn't sound surprised by this, though Illumi wanted to swallow the words as soon as they left his mouth. "Good?" she asked. "Why's it good?"

He had no idea why – after all, he'd only ever known what it meant to be an assassin; everyone around him, everything he did, was made to kill and to collect the reward for it. Now, here was Chiara. Somehow, Illumi couldn't stomach it to imagine her killing something. To do so seemed to violate some fundamental, unspoken law: blood didn't belong on such a peculiar, pretty girl. No. That wasn't it. By all definitions, Mother and Datari and the Flaminia mothers were 'pretty'. And they made perfectly good killers.

Maybe it was just easier to imagine Chiara getting hurt than causing it. More realistic, though the thought stirred something ugly inside of Illumi. He looked away, pretending he'd never said anything at all. "I don't know. Nevermind."

"Mmm. Okay. Okay, well, here's your room."

"Thank you."

"Oh!" she gasped, making Illumi's heart shudder in expectation. "By the way! I never said _hello_! I'm sorry!" Letter still in hand, Chiara pinched her dress and bobbed a quick, sweet curtsey. "Welcome. It's nice to see you again, Illumi-kun ~ I hope you enjoy your stay, and that you and Datari get on nicely."

Entirely in spite of himself, Illumi smiled. Just slightly.

* * *

The next morning, Mother was invited to watch one of Datari's dance lessons while Illumi was left to roam the grounds. He woke when the sun was only just beginning to ooze over the horizon, everything bathed in silvery light and flickering like glitter beneath a cool wash of dew. He started out wandering the garden – trying to distinguish between harmless flowers and their more lethal counterparts, picking at a mandarin for breakfast.

There were countless paths to explore, and any number of hours in which to explore them. However, it was only a short while before Illumi backtracked and went to sit beneath one of the oak trees nearest to the house. Leaves shed around him. Cold gusts snaked their way beneath his jacket. And just a small distance away, Chiara was on her hands and knees, plucking at a late batch of strawberries. Her hair was a curly disaster down her neck and shoulders; she was bare-footed in the dirt, pajamas short and frilly, knees and elbows knobbly. Like a garden fairy.

Alongside her, a maid stood with a basket in hand. They both spotted Illumi, and waved. He could barely wave back before Chiara went back to berry-picking.

He pretended to busy himself with his mandarin peel in order not to stare for too long. But inevitably, he did, fascinated, and thankfully, Chiara didn't seem to notice. If she did, she made no show of it, scouring the bushes and balancing strawberries beneath her fingers, marveling at them like gems. The basket filled quickly, and soon the maid was storing strawberries in her apron.

"Are you shy?" came a familiar voice, rounding the tree. "Or just dense?"

"Neither, Grandfather."

Grandfather stood where Illumi sat, hands folded carefully behind his back. "Then why lurk about like a sewer goblin when you could just go talk to the girl? Hmm?"

"I like sitting here."

"That so? Well, seems you're more hopeless than your mother says."

"Maybe."

Throaty and mocking, Grandfather laughed. "Suit yourself, Illumi," he said. "I hope it will embarrass you to know that an old man has an easier time making friends with little girls than you do." Then, unflappably, he lifted his hand and waved. "Good morning, Chiara-chan."

"Good morning!"

In those few moments, Illumi hadn't noticed Chiara come up to the oak tree, maid and strawberries both in tow. He would have stood, but it somehow didn't seem like the best course of action (his limbs suddenly too stiff, everything suddenly too close); of course, he couldn't just stay sitting either. What to do, what to do, he wondered – faced with the sight of Chiara's milky white shins and dirty knees, her attention fixed on Grandfather.

He gestured to the basket. "What have you got there?"

"Berries! My brother is going to make waffles."

"That's a lot of berries for waffles."

Thoughtfully, Chiara hummed. "I thought so too. _Here_ ~ have some."

"Why don't you pick out a few on my behalf?"

"Me?"

"You'd know more about choosing strawberries than I would, I think."

She looked confused. And then she looked thrilled. "Okay!" she squeaked, and snatched the basket from the maid. "I'll pick out the fattest ones, 'cause you're our guest. But don't tell Tadashi. He'll be jealous."

Grandfather smirked down at Illumi. "Of course, Chiara-chan. Our secret."

And indeed, Illumi was dismayed by how easily Chiara giggled. It was only because she was a little girl that Grandfather was so nice to her. Had she been a boy – like all the rest of them – he probably wouldn't have even bothered saying good morning. Instead, he opened his palms and accepted Chiara's loving selection of strawberries, thanking her as though it were a business deal. Then he kicked Illumi in the hip – not hard enough for it to hurt, but hard enough for Chiara's eyes to go wide in alarm.

"What were you just telling me, Illumi?" he asked, dead serious despite the fact that Illumi had no idea what he was talking about. "Didn't you say you were hungry?"

Chiara gasped, "You can have strawberries too, if you want, Lumi-kun!"

To think of it, Illumi couldn't say he'd ever liked strawberries all that much. But Chiara watched him so eagerly, clinging to her basket of strawberries with such fervor – like they were the most precious things she could possibly offer… Illumi reached out, taking one for himself. He bit into it, chewing slow and deliberate. And with tart juice on his tongue and down his throat, he wondered if perhaps this was his new favourite taste in the world. "Thank you," he told her, quietly.

"You can have more, if you want."

"Okay."

Grandfather cleared his throat. "If you'll excuse me."

Slipping the strawberries into his pocket, hands back behind his back, he turned away. In stilted silence, they watched him leave. Illumi still held onto a half-bitten berry; Chiara still clasped her basket, gripping tighter when the maid laid a hand down to take it.

"You have your dancing lesson in a bit, Chiara-sama," the maid said meekly. "We need to get you cleaned up and ready."

"I want to stay outside with Lumi-kun. For a little bit."

Illumi was as surprised as the maid looked.

"But Chiara-sama–"

" _A little bit_. And we can keep the strawberries to share." She turned to Illumi, probably knowing he wouldn't tell her no – he didn't care in the least about her dancing lesson. "Is that okay? If I stay with you?"

He only nodded. And so off the maid retreated, looking defeated (had one of _their_ butlers let _them_ get away with missing training, the consequences would have been dire) as Chiara knelt to sit. Legs crossed, basket between her and Illumi in blushing, fruity glory. While Illumi continued to linger over his first strawberry, taking small bites and relishing the fact that Chiara's fingers had touched it just moments ago, Chiara chewed and swallowed several in a seemingly single breath.

Her toes curled in the grass. She wiped her knees, dirt lingering so that they looked bruised. She smelled of something fresh, and had freckles on her shoulders, and – Illumi noticed – grey eyes. Grey eyes like silvery ash, bright behind fluttering lashes and lightening further whenever she looked at him.

"So~" she said.

"So."

"I read your letter." She fiddled with another strawberry. "You wrote mine differently to how you wrote all Datari's."

"Mother mostly told me what to write with hers."

"And not with mine?"

"No. Is there a problem?"

Chiara smiled, and shook her head. "I only noticed." A pause. "Will you write me more letters when you go again? I know you're super busy, and if you don't want to that's okay ~ I mean, I don't think I have very interesting things to say, but–"

"I'll write." It made Illumi feel a little better, the way her words tumbled out as fast as his heart seemed to be going. "You said you had questions."

"What?"

"In your letter."

"Oh, right." She bit into her strawberry, chewed for a while. "And you said I could ask them. In _your_ letter. So, one of the things I was wondering ~ you know, you were always training, and when you're not training, you're doing jobs. So I wondered what you do for fun."

Illumi mulled over the word. "Fun?" He stared at her. She waited. "I don't know. What do you do for _fun_?"

"Play with Tadashi and Datari. When they're not doing jobs. Otherwise, I play games with the maids, though they're no good at things like hide-and-seek. Are your butlers good at hide-and-seek?"

"I don't know. I don't play with the butlers."

"Weird. You should."

Feeling like the question was a test – one at which he was failing – Illumi stewed for a moment. He bit into another strawberry, mulling again over its plump texture and the taste of its juice. What _did_ he do for fun? Until now, it had hardly seemed like something worth considering. But there it was – that thing she did, making things important that shouldn't have been important. Fun and strawberries. Was this a nen ability Illumi didn't know about?

He thought hard, until at last it struck him. "Sometimes, when it rains, I take my little brother outside to catch frogs," he said. "There's lots of them around the mountain."

By this, Chiara looked baffled. "I didn't think Milluki-kun liked going outside."

"No," Illumi said. "Not him. Killua."

"Oh, Killua." There was another pause. Chiara stretched her legs out in front of her, flexing and pointing her feet daintily. God, Illumi wanted to touch them – dirty as they were, smooth like marble underneath. After a while, Chiara said, a little wistfully, "You like Killua-kun a lot, I can tell."

"Mmm. And you like your siblings."

"Yes, they're so good at everything." She leaned her head onto her shoulder, smiling at Illumi with a searching look in her grey, grey eyes. "Datari is going to dance for everybody tonight, you know. Mommy had a special dress made for her and everything, and Tadashi is going to play the accompaniment on the shamisen. They've been practising for a few weeks now ~ it's also for a job, I think, but it's such a pretty dance that–"

"Are you going to dance?"

"Me?" Shaking her head again, she laughed. "I'm not nearly as good as Tari is. Besides, everyone wants her to impress you, so there's no reason for _me_ to dance."

"I don't really care about watching your sister though."

Secretively, Chiara leaned forward. "Don't tell her that. She already doesn't like you."

In spite of himself, Illumi leaned in too. Freckles were splattered across Chiara's nose as much as they were over her shoulders. The strawberries had left a faint pink stain around her mouth. Plainly, thinking there couldn't possibly be a simpler (or more important) question in the world, he asked again, "So will you dance?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia time! In case anyone is wondering (probably not, but here you have it). The twins and Chiara are the products of reciprocal IVFs – they all share the same father (a former butler, loyal to the Flaminia family, though he does not feature whatsoever in their lives apart from having been a sperm donor). Chiara is genetically Kei's, carried by Dahlena. Vice versa with the twins.


	6. Chapter 6

They sat together at dinner that night – it was, naturally, no accident. Earlier in the evening, Illumi had ghosted past the dining table, casting his eye over the calligraphy name-tags in anticipation. Of course, he had been squashed in next to Datari. And _of course_ , Chiara was all the way out of reach on the other side of the table between Grandfather and her brother.

Nobody would bat an eye, Illumi reasoned, if he were to swap himself out with Tadashi. Did the twins not already cling to each other? Permanently fixed. A matched set, inseparable. Nobody would see any reason to suspect foul play. And so Illumi had snatched away his name-tag and stolen the seat next to Chiara. And as he had expected, nobody – except perhaps, some knowing maids – questioned the change. The twins were left to titter and whisper between themselves like a pair of canaries, undisturbed and much too comfortable for siblings. Mother exchanged low conversation with the Flaminia mothers at either of her sides.

And Chiara, whooshing into her seat as though having been blown in upon a gust of wind, flashed Illumi a vivid, blushing look of delight like a rose-coloured pearl. Even if she mostly spoke to Grandfather, at first. Even if the first three courses came and went with torturous slowness. It was enough to be close to her: her shoulder in near-perfect definition (freckled constellations! the hollow behind her collarbone!), her knee almost touching his beneath the table.

Their knees _did_ touch, at some point lost in time. Illumi couldn't say it had been entirely by accident either – only light enough for her to not notice, only long enough for him to feel like he'd gotten away with the most daring thing he'd ever done. It was when she turned to him that he pulled away, pretending not to be painfully aware of the way she leaned in closer.

"Don't you like fish?" she asked.

"I like fish."

"But then why aren't you eating?"

"Just not hungry for fish. I'm full after the salad."

"After the _salad_?" She scrunched her features pertly, as though this were absurd. "No one's full after _salad_. And what about dessert? Are you not going to eat _dessert_ then? We're having meringues, silly!"

Illumi shrugged. "Maybe not," he said. "You can have my serving, if you want. Dessert seems important to you, _silly_."

"No, no, that's not it. It – I just –" She seemed to give up. "Nevermind. You'll want it when it arrives."

"Perhaps."

She changed the subject. In quick, quiet voices, they spoke about things that didn't matter much – Illumi's responses short and prompting, Chiara's longer and more involved and made all the more entertaining by her energetic, animated face. Raised eyebrows. Pursed, plum-pink lips. Freckles and eyelashes and blotches of colour and special oddities standing out the longer Illumi looked. And he looked. And he looked. And he committed her to memory – just so in the cool, clear light of the dining room – wondering if things as nice as her could really be allowed to exist in his world.

And if it was so, why had it taken thirteen years for him to discover it? And if it wasn't so, how long would it be before she vanished from him? Like sand through his hand. A year? Two? Another thirteen? Or would it be whenever he and Datari got married, when there would be no further need for these Visits?

The thought struck Illumi like a dart through the chest. It made the palate cleanser hard to swallow, fresh ginger pieces catching sourly at the base of his throat.

It shouldn't have bothered him this much. If there was one thing Illumi was familiar with, it was ephemerality: nothing nice ever lasted. Why should she be any different?

The clink of a spoon against glass drew Illumi's attention from himself. The pervasive murmur about the table fell silent, and everyone turned to look towards Dahlena, primped and puffed in some garish gown and gazing harshly from the head of the table. "Dessert will be served in just a moment," she said in that sharp, shattering way. "While we finish our meal, Datari and Tadashi have prepared a small item for entertainment. Will you two go get yourselves set up?"

Blandly, looking irritated at having been disturbed, the twins sulked out from their seats. Napkins dropped sullenly to the table. Bodies drooping towards each other like the curves in an hourglass.

Illumi turned back to Chiara. "You said you'd dance too."

She was confused. "I never said that."

"You have to."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"What's this I hear?" Grandfather chimed in.

To which Illumi responded, loud and with some dire sense of urgency, "Chiara-chan is going to dance too."

"No... No, I'm not. I didn't say–"

"Oh!" Mother cooed from between the Flaminia mothers. "But what a lovely idea!"

Dahlena and Kei stared at Chiara, unreadable masks leaking uncertainty. "You didn't mention that you wanted to dance too, Chi-Chi," Dahlena said, softer than before.

Kei added, "You haven't practiced anything, darling."

More flustered, no longer looking at Illumi but at the room at large, Chiara replied in something of a cry, " _Exactly_. _I know_. I'm not–"

"That's okay, Mommy," Datari said from the doorway, voice ingratiating and quiet with a sinister excitement. "We'll be able to arrange something, quick quick. Right, Chi-Chi?" She didn't wait. "Right, Dashi?"

"Right," Tadashi only half-smiled. "Maybe that one with the harp accompaniment."

"Yes!" Datari squealed. "I love that one. Chi-Chi loves it too, don't you? And you're _so good_ at it! Come on, don't be shy. Dance with me."

In her seat, Chiara seemed to tremble. Her face had risen into high, glorious colour, pinched into a tight look of horror. Illumi felt himself smile small – he hadn't elicited _this_ response from her before. Was she really shy as that? He half-liked it. Just a delicate little thing, too nervous to even dance for guests. How would she ever kill a stranger?

"Well," Grandfather said, "get on with it then. Off you go."

Looking like a breeze could blow her over, Chiara looked to her mothers first. Some unspoken thing – approval, disapproval, Illumi couldn't say – was exchanged in their unclear expressions. Then she stood, and ambled towards her siblings so that the three of them could slip away in a pulsating, dazzling air of restless energies.

Mother clapped her hands together, laughing, and touched at Kei's arm. "What a treat this will be. I've heard such wonderful things down the grapevine about Datari's dancing. And Chiara-chan! She is just too sweet." She looked to Illumi. "Don't you think so, Illumi?"

"Thank you, Kikyo-chan," Kei said, and touched her hand tenderly to Mother's. "But I'm afraid Chiara isn't as much a sight to watch as her sister is. I don't know what's gotten into her."

Illumi refused to believe it.

At the edge of the room, where the floor had been cleared as a makeshift stage, the maids lugged in a grand, imposing harp. They left. They reappeared with the dessert – meringues, as Chiara had predicted, topped with candied strawberries of unnatural red. Nobody started to eat. Not when Tadashi returned, unchanged, and seated himself primly behind the harp. Not when the lights in the room were dimmed to a sleepy gold, brighter about the floor where Tadashi waited.

And when at last Chiara appeared, pitter-pattering sheepishly behind Datari, Illumi didn't bother looking anywhere else.

Their dresses swept across the floor like overturned lilies, pale and flouncy. Chiara seemed to drown in the material. Indeed, when the harp began – Tadashi plucking adroitly at the strings – she twirled and disappeared, swallowed up by a cloud of billowing dress. Illumi stared. Illumi hardly breathed. Her bare feet slid and darted across the floor; her hands twisted and furled and recoiled like white flowers writhing in wind. Illumi had no idea whether she was any good or not. Until then, he had never seen anybody dance before. Yet, still, it was mesmerizing. Almost exotic. Like watching mist or ripples in water.

So spellbinding was it, that any other person would have been startled when a dart whirled overhead. Another. And another. Quiet and quick as humming birds. They landed along the wall, through the animal skins, in measured points across paintings. When Illumi did suffer to look away, he noted the needle-like thinness of the darts. They wouldn't even leave noticeable holes.

With each airy twirl, another blade went flying. And with each new dart or blade, Mother grew more delighted.

The harp fell quiet. Chiara and Datari curtsied – long, slow dips, material pooling silkily about their legs – and as much as Illumi wished Chiara would look his way, her head remained intently down. They left with Tadashi striding behind. Nobody clapped. Nobody commented for a while, picking thoughtfully at their desserts, though Kei and Dahlena looked between Mother and Grandfather expectantly.

"How many targets was that little number choreographed for?" Grandfather asked at last.

Kei answered, "Anywhere up to thirty. At least," she smiled, "that's how many we've reached before anyone caught on."

"Hmm."

"And that was the dance you performed with Datari on her debut job?" Mother asked.

"Yes. She was nine. Everybody died smiling."

The two of them tittered, the playground sound of much younger girls (poisonously sweet, something in it false and unsettling). Illumi shuffled restlessly, pushing the meringue around on his plate and glancing to Chiara's next to him. She'd change out of the dress. She'd come back and eat her dessert.

His question seemed to come from nowhere, "Will Chiara do the same dance when she does her first job?"

Though the laughter dimmed, Kei continued to smile her bobcat smile. She shook her head, glanced to Dahlena in that same wordless exchange of communication, and then returned her look to Illumi. "Oh, Illumi-kun, you surely noticed Chi-Chi wouldn't be _nearly_ good enough for that. She isn't subtle enough, she doesn't have the grace. I think she requires something with a bit more – oh, how shall I say? – _spirit_. Right, darling?"

"Right," Dahlena said, frown thick with disapproval and making her face look mannishly muscular. "Though that's bound to get her killed sooner rather than later."

Illumi only stared in response, listless heartbeat in his ears drowning out the continued conversation.

Only a little while later did Datari and Tadashi return. They seated themselves back at the table without a word, speaking when spoken to and offering the shortest possible replies. Every now and then, Illumi would feel them glance his way, their attention digging into his skin as much as their darts could have done. Around the table, the meringues disappeared. The conversation dulled. And when finally – _finally_ – Grandfather asked where Chiara had disappeared to, it was the twins who replied in perfect, sing-song unison, "Didn't feel well. Went to bed. She says goodnight."

* * *

He found her kicking a ball near the oak tree the next morning. Pajamas again. Hair in her usual pair of plaits this time. She must have known he was there – if Illumi could feel the faint prickle of her aura just as much as he could feel the sky ripple with uneasy thunder, surely she could feel his – and yet, Chiara remained angled away. Intent on the ball, watching her feet bounce clumsily about it. The closer Illumi got, the more certain he was that she was ignoring him.

"Good morning."

No response, only the unyielding shape of her little back.

"You're not going to achieve anything, just messing around with the ball like that."

It was supposed to be a 'conversation starter'. Illumi didn't actually expect her to stop kicking the ball. But she did, and she stood there still and quiet for some time. Her neck was tense as an ivory column. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. Something seemed to engorge itself in the silence like the clouds above them grew heavy with rain – a tension upon which Illumi couldn't quite place his finger. Something had happened, had dulled the undullable and so done the unforgivable.

Eventually, Chiara murmured, "Go away."

This surprised Illumi. "Why?"

"Because."

"Are you unhappy with something?"

Up on tiptoe, Chiara spun to face him. Her expression was hard and unsettling. "Just go away, Illumi," she said, bolder. "I don't want to see you now."

"You're upset." Of course, all the signs were there; Illumi knew how to recognise emotions in other people, though he knew little of how to handle them. Instead of going away, he ventured a little closer. "Have I done something to upset you?"

"I didn't want to dance last night," Chiara explained, words brittle and piercing. "Why did you say that I said I would? It was embarrassing. So, so embarrassing. I didn't want to dance."

Illumi blinked once, twice again. "Is it because you think you're not good?" he asked. "You mustn't think that. There's no need. If you're concerned, you only need to practice and–"

"That's not it. I just didn't _want_ to dance."

"But why?"

"Because."

"That's not a reason."

"It is a reason."

"If it is, it's a stupid reason."

At this, lines cracked their way across Chiara's features. She seemed to crumple and swell at once, holding her breath, words threatening. "It – you –" she stammered. "I don't want to talk to you. Leave me – just leave me alone." She began to walk away, heels burying themselves into the grass, arms stiff along her ribcage. But that wouldn't be fair. Illumi couldn't suffer to let her get away with just a _because_. And so he grabbed at her. She gasped. "Ow! Illumi!"

Hand around her wrist, he felt the jut of bone in his palm. Her skin twisted as she tried to shake off his grip, like the way Illumi would sometimes give Milluki Chinese burns. It was both exhilarating and shocking. Until now, the feeling had been ever present, weighing itself through Illumi's mind; now, however, he felt it with a new sort of clarity. Her powerlessness. Right then, right there, he could have broken her arm with just a flick. Much as she struggled, he held her there – no getting away, no fighting him off. _Let go. Let go. Let go!_ He didn't.

If she couldn't fight _him_ off, how would she be able to do so with anyone else? If this was really the best she could do, was there any sense in her being an assassin? Weak. Weak. Weak. It had been repeated to him like a mantra when he was still a child. Back then, it had been the most repulsive thing.

Now, though, now it was strangely appealing. It was fine if she was weak. Let her be. So long as he could be there too, just like this.

"Hey. Zoldyck." It was Tadashi. "Get your hand off my sister, would you?"

He was closer than expected, only a few steps away and having materialised seemingly from nothing. Likewise, he looked about ready to pounce on Illumi despite his mussed appearance – a silk nightgown and outdoor slippers, unbrushed hair in a violet disaster around his head. They stared at each other. Chiara stopped struggling. Her free hand had come to rest on Illumi's in a frozen gesture of struggle; now, it lingered there, feather-light and clammy.

"We're just playing," Chiara said after a while, unconvinced and unconvincing.

"She can make me let go, if she wants to," Illumi added.

The sour twist in Tadashi's features was satisfying. "Chi-Chi," he said, "Mommy wants you inside."

"What for?"

"She didn't say. Just go."

"But–"

"Go."

Chiara paused before slipping out from Illumi's hold (no fight needed this time). Doe-like, she sprinted across the stretch of lawn and around the side of the building, not looking back. Illumi stared after her while Tadashi stared at him, a triangle of uneasy attention. As much as Illumi had known something was awry a few moments ago, so too could he tell now how potently the hostility permeated the air. Like a miasma. Like bloodlust.

When at last Chiara disappeared from sight, Illumi returned Tadashi's disdainful glare. "As Chiara said, we were only playing."

"What do you want with her, Zoldyck?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

"You're already taking Datari."

"I'm not taking anyone." Illumi cocked his head in genuine misunderstanding, though the words sounded more mocking, even to his own ears. "That was an arrangement made between our parents. I'm only doing as instructed."

"Whatever the fuck you want to call it, I don't particularly care," Tadashi spat. His girly features peaked and curved with all the threat of a viper. His voice seemed to tremble with that same bladed quality as his mother. "Datari already thinks you're a freak."

"Oh?"

"Chiara does too."

"No, she doesn't."

"Well, perhaps not now, then. But I see the way you look at her. Last night. Now. You weren't _playing_." Tadashi, in a lazy movement, pulled a pack of gum from his gown pocket. He took a strip, balanced it between his lips. "You like her, don't you?"

"Assassins don't like people."

Chewing, Tadashi gave a harsh _hah_. "Creep."

He turned in much the same, graceful way as Chiara and followed the path that she had set, blowing bubblegum and leaving Illumi in a simmering state beneath the oak tree. Somehow, the texture of Chiara's wrist – or, at least, the memory of it – flared back to life in Illumi's palm. He ran his fingers over the flesh, imagining their touch over her knuckles just as much as he imagined them around Tadashi's feminine neck. It would be so easy. But then again–


	7. Chapter 7

_Present Day_

"I'm leaving again tomorrow morning."

It had been just under two weeks since Illumi had come home – a few days of unsettled, uneasy routine. There had been Chiara's appointment with the family doctor, refilling her medicine bottles and being told nothing new, and then there had been the visit from Mother's tailor, swathes of silk and velvet and brocade flung shambolically across the bedroom floor. Each night, Illumi came to bed late, and Chiara's tulip-stem legs would tangle themselves between his; her fingertips would come probing through the darkness, tracing his face as though searching for something she'd forgotten.

Killua remained in his cell, Illumi did not go to see him.

Mornings, he would watch Chiara dress, pretending not to and ignoring the burn it inspired in his stomach. Afternoons, they'd walk through the garden or the forest, and Chiara would play with Mike (after so many years, she'd finally convinced the guard dog to catch a ball… now he wouldn't leave her alone).

Through it all, a suffocating sense of anticipation followed Illumi – making him expect, at every moment, some sign of plotting to ooze through Chiara's sweetness.

She had spoken to Grandfather about leaving the mountain. The thought disappointed and irritated Illumi: after _everything_ , she thought she could leave. Just like that. Worse, Father showed no remorse in blatantly disregarding Illumi's instructions: that Chiara was _his_ wife, and so was _his_ concern. Her health. Her movements. She was his to oversee, and until then, the rest of the family had been perfectly cooperative. Now, however, Illumi couldn't stomach to watch Chiara and Father speak at breakfast (how Father smiled as though she were a small animal, how he would sometimes press his hand to the top of her head like he did with Killua); Illumi was loathed to think that his control could have been slipping.

It was necessary to make Chiara forget the idea entirely.

Immediately.

That afternoon, they played checkers on a picnic blanket and drank from one of Mother's red wines. The rose bushes had yielded pastel blooms that smelled potently of raspberries, and the grass was comfortable, yet to be trimmed.

It was in the clearing where the hole had once been – now long filled and hidden beneath the grass, yet still retaining the same sanctity from all those years ago. Chiara and Illumi came often, left to their own devices. Milluki seemed to think they fucked here.

Illumi told Chiara he would be leaving, and she paused over the checkers board for a while.

Then she looked at him blankly. "So soon?"

"Tomorrow," he repeated. "I have a job to get back to."

"But… your arm…?"

"All better now." Illumi opened and closed his hand in emphasis. "I'll be back again in a few weeks."

"Weeks." She returned her gaze to the checkers board, placing a piece. In the trees' thick shade, shadows fell across her face like blotches of ink: in half-moons beneath her eyes; austerely down the ridges of her cheekbones. Humming, she took her wine glass, and sipped. "You were just gone for a few weeks, Illumi. Why are you rushing off again so quickly?"

He curved his arm around her back, wound a lock of hair playfully between his fingers. "Come now, don't be like that, Chi-Chi-bean."

"Can't somebody else go?"

"This job requires a Hunters License. I already told you."

"But – Illumi, we didn't even–"

He knew without her having to finish the sentence what she was referring to, and that was not the direction in which he wanted to steer the conversation. Gentle and decisive, Illumi cut her short, "It's only a little while. It won't even be as long as the Hunters Exam was."

A pout. Another pointed sip from her wine. "And after that? How long will you be home for before you have to dispatch another target?" Face flushing unhappily, she twisted away to face him as he lay on his side across the picnic blanket. "Or, more likely," she continued, "how long will it be before you have to go running after Killua again? Hmm? If it's not a job, it's him."

Again, this was not where Illumi wanted the conversation to go. Killua was always the last thing he could discuss with Chiara. It put her in a sulk, though she would never say why. Naturally, Illumi said nothing, and so only stared at Chiara with biting disapproval. He drank from his own wine – a cabernet, bitter as vinegar and sweet at the same time – and let his gaze wear her down. Until she sighed. Until her taut, tiny back unraveled into a resigned slouch.

She asked, "Can I come with you this time?"

And _there_ _it_ _was_.

Illumi cocked his head. "Why would you want to do that?"

"I just–"

"You know you're not nearly well enough to leave here." He lifted his hand once again to touch at her cheek, the skin smooth as porcelain and terribly kissable. "I would have to spend all my time looking after you rather than getting my job done."

"You wouldn't have to look after me though."

"Of course I would. I've told you before, there are people out there thirsty for Zoldyck blood. You'd be able to do nothing for yourself if such a person were to get hold of you. You'd be too weak for that. And too lovely – I can't stand to think what sorts of things people would want to do to my cute little wife if they could." Illumi tapped the pixie-tip of her nose. "And anyway, you've spent so little time outside the mansion, you wouldn't know the first thing to do with yourself if I were to leave you alone."

"I wouldn't need to _do_ anything," Chiara objected. "I'm just always alone here at the mansion ~ I want to come with you. Please. _Please_ , Lumi."

"I would like it if you could, Chi-Chi-bean. But it just wouldn't do. You're not cut out for it, you know that. Or don't you trust me when I say so?" He smiled as Chiara frowned. "Besides which, you're not alone. There's Mother you can talk to."

"But–"

"I said no."

" _But, Illumi!_ "

Somebody came scurrying towards them through the bushes, and they both looked in the direction of the disturbance. By such an interruption, Illumi wasn't sure whether he was more relieved or annoyed.

Wide-eyed and mousy, Kalluto came to a halt at the edge of the picnic blanket. He held his fan in his lap. He glanced testily between Illumi and Chiara, somehow unsure of himself – had he expected to walk in on something? Was that perhaps why he'd made such an uncharacteristic racket, rustling about in the bushes like some sort of clumsy monkey? When he managed to speak, it was measured and careful. "Illu-nii," he said, "there's some boys who've come through the Testing Gate."

"Uh-huh. So?" Illumi made a dismissive gesture. "The butlers will take care of that."

"Yes, Illu-nii. Canary is busy with them now. But they keep insisting that they're Killua's friends. They want to see him." Kalluto paused, and looked to Chiara as though she could add anything to the answer. "It's the boy you told Mother about."

Slowly, Illumi straightened himself.

So.

It was Gon.

Illumi had wondered how long it would take – truly, he hadn't expected it to be very long, remembering that severe and misguided determination with which the Gon boy had broken his arm. Even so, apparently he had underestimated the boy – in so little time, Gon had already passed the Testing Gate. And apparently, the butlers had done nothing to put a stop to it. At this, Illumi sighed blandly. "My, my," he said, "this is inconvenient."

Chiara poked his side in questioning, "Are you going to intervene?"

"Mother says you mustn't," Kalluto said. "She wants to handle things quietly."

A giggle. "How surprising. That's not like her, to want something done _quietly_."

"If Mother doesn't want me to handle it, then why are you bothering us, Kalluto?"

"Oh, well…" Looking coy once again, Kalluto opened his fan to cover his face, to hide the childish blush as he said, "Mother actually wanted me to remind you that she isn't watching you. She's turned her visor off for this area. So, you know, you can–"

Chiara cut him short, "Okay. Please tell her thank you, Kalluto-chan." And then, sweetly, so that it didn't sound like a dismissal, "You can go now."

"Nee-chan, I thought the doctor said at your last appointment that you're not supposed to drink wine."

"No. Really. You can go now, Kalluto-chan."

Features tightly concentrated, Kalluto did a bop between a bow and a curtsey before vanishing into the bushes – this time making no sound, smooth as the wind through the foliage. And with him gone, nothing was said. Chiara only drank again and swirled her wine lovingly, its ruby contents glittering and staining the corners of her mouth purple when she sipped, sipped, sipped. Illumi watched her.

When he'd told her about the Hunters Exam on his second night home, she'd had little to say about Gon. She'd been more interested in the places, and the animals, and the weapons they'd gotten to use, and the number of people Illumi had killed and how. Perhaps it had just been an effort to – once again, as usual – avoid talking about Killua. Although, then again, she had also always liked hearing grizzly details: grey eyes brightening to a colour like snow, grin rapt and attentive as Illumi related how to rip someone's heart out without spilling a drop of blood, or how people's faces spasmed when he used his needles on them.

Did she really have nothing to say now, though? It seemed she did. Lips tight and curling peculiarly, she looked to be tasting her words before she spoke. Illumi waited. He drank his own wine, considering when to bring up the matter of the doctor's orders.

At last, Chiara asked, "Are you going to see Killua because of this?"

"Mmm. Perhaps I should."

"Okay," she shrugged, dourly, "then you can go."

"We're not finished our game."

"It's fine. I was going to win anyway."

"Is that so?" Illumi considered the board. "You've been practising then."

"Mmm. I have lots of time on my hands, you know."

"Don't sulk, Chiara. You know this is what you agreed to when you married me," Illumi stood, and snatched Chiara's glass away as he did so.

The shape of her lips dyed the rim, thin and purplish as blood. She tried to object, reaching up with a squeak, but Illumi shook his head. He poured the remaining wine into the grass. Of course, it was only for show. He knew full-well she'd go on drinking, regardless of what the doctor had said. It had been the same when she'd been told to limit her sugar – she'd only bossed the butlers around more with demands for cake and sweets. And when she'd been told to eat more vegetables, she'd eaten less, flushing with ire if force-fed.

These were harmless rebellions that Illumi allowed. After all, he knew less sugar would do nothing to help her recovery (and doctor knew it too). But to let her get away with little victories kept her satisfied enough to not go chasing bigger things. Like leaving the mountain.


	8. Chapter 8

A lot happened in a few weeks.

Mother found out she was pregnant again; the progression was almost instantaneous. Within days, it seemed, she began to swell and glow like a ripe fruit – her kimonos became flouncy dresses, making her look bigger than she probably was, and she wore more rouge than usual so that she was always blushing, always bright. Even though the new baby was still months away, the butlers were kept busy with preparations. New nursery. New toys. Fixing new poisons for the milk and ordering weighted diapers.

_Come listen, Lumi, dear. Come put your head on Mother's tummy and listen to your little brother or sister._

Even though Illumi couldn't ever hear anything, could detect no life within his Mother's belly, he never said so. He would lean in and pretend to listen, finding the whole thing pointless but also relishing it. Secretly enamored with every second that he lay there, Mother stroking his hair, telling him he was such a good big brother. She would let Killua prod at her belly button, and she would patiently answer Milluki's questions, and she would let Illumi lie quietly until he would wonder if perhaps she'd forgotten entirely that he was there. Her pulse throbbing steady along his cheek. Her hand still knotting lazily through his hair.

Illumi liked it when Mother was pregnant. He liked how Father stayed home, and hovered at Mother's side like a shadow. How he would hold her hand, expecting her to crack at the lightest pressure –walking down stairs, opening her own doors. _Illumi, pour Mother's tea. Illumi, hold Mother's fan_. _No, Illumi, there will be no training today_.

Babies changed everything.

Even Datari was nicer when she came to visit.

After the Flaminias were told about the pregnancy, Datari had been sent to convey their congratulations and to deliver gifts (a crystal baby bottle, and a particularly sadistic looking teething ring). The journey between the Flaminias' estate and Kukuroo Mountain was a tiring one – two days on an airship, followed by the Testing Gate (Datari could open to the second door on her own) and the trek up the mountain. As such, Datari was invited to stay a few days before returning home. How fortunate and suspicious, then, that a maid had been sent along with her as well as a week's worth of clothing and feminine necessities.

The two of them, Illumi and Datari, were relegated to an exorbitant number of hours together. Presently, they had been sent off on a walk around the mountain. Datari's shoes clattered like castanets down the rocky bits and she walked painfully slowly, admiring, not saying much. And still, even after wasting so much time and walking so little, she stopped for a break. Swooshing to sit upon a branch, her dress's green material disappearing against the moss, she gave Illumi that stony smile.

"You'll probably want lots of children one day, right, Zoldyck?" she stated more than asked, and tapped the space next to her, signaling for Illumi to sit.

He didn't. "It's what will be expected."

"Mmm. My mothers have told me." In the broken shards of sunlight, she looked ghostly and cold. No freckles. Ghoulishly blue eyes rather than that warm, pooling grey. "They say that you and I will be _expected_ to have boys, boys, and more boys."

"I suppose."

Illumi hated the way she said 'we'. As if there was a 'we'.

"My question wasn't what's expected of us though. I asked if you'll _want_ kids. As in, would you have them if you had the choice?"

"What does that matter?"

Flicking her hair back with a delicate, melting shake of her shoulders, she sighed. "Just answer the question, you slug."

Illumi thought for a while. He didn't see how it was relevant, whether he wanted kids or not. There was no other way of continuing the Zoldyck line, and there was nothing that really concerned Illumi apart from that. At least, he didn't think there was. He'd never really considered it before. Now, however, confronted with the question, Illumi felt something warm unfurl in his chest – pregnancy, babies, looking after them like he looked after Killua… there was nothing Illumi could think of that would make him _not_ want children.

Eventually, he shrugged, and said, "Yes, I'd want to have babies."

"Gross. I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

Languidly, Datari shifted her weight and lay herself across the branch. The dress fell across the shape of her legs, her hips and her stomach, like a second skin, shadows hinting at the body of an almost-woman. She stretched her legs, cat-like, and made a lazy noise like a yawn. Illumi looked away, not knowing why he did so but feeling he should, not liking the way Datari turned her head slowly across her shoulders to stare at him.

"Because babies ruin everything," she said. "I'll never be able to work _properly_ as an assassin if I also have to be a mother. And I like what I do now. I meet lots of interesting people, and do lots of interesting things." She smiled darkly. "Not that I'd expect you to understand what I mean. You Zoldycks work very differently to how we do. I bet you probably haven't even come close to doing half the things I've done."

"Like what?"

"Like kissing somebody. Stuff like that."

The word hung in the air, ugly like a wound. Illumi tested it, its shape unfamiliar in his mouth – "Kissing."

"Yes. _Kissing_."

"I don't see what kissing and being an assassin have to do with each other."

"Oh, kissing can be very dangerous when done right." Graceful, with all the slicing poise of a snake, Datari sprung up from the branch and lunged toward Illumi. "Let me _show you_."

Everywhere, from toes to fingers, Illumi's body contorted to the offensive. Things went blank for a moment, Datari's aura suddenly flaring with vivid, shocking intention – not quite hostile, but close to it. Illumi felt everything go sharp; he gripped one of his needles before he had the chance to stop himself. But then, just inches away, Datari stopped. She leaned into her hip, aura dissipating, and she threw her head back in a bold, disdainful laugh.

She pointed at him mockingly. "See? You were ready to attack me, all because I said I'd kiss you." Her attention went to the needle in his hand. "Interesting choice."

Illumi narrowed his eyes at her. Exhaling hard, he returned the needle to his pocket. "I've been experimenting…" he said, by way of explanation and in an attempt to detract from Datari's comment. "Needles work well because they're discreet. And they work well with my Nen because–"

"Blah blah. Back to my point now."

"You don't have a point."

Ignoring him, Datari made a thoughtful face – it almost pained Illumi how much like Chiara's it was.

"Have you wondered why our parents want _us_ to get married? Like, us two specifically," she asked. Illumi had no chance to answer. "No, it's not because I'm one fine specimen of a lady. I'm sure that was a consideration, but what this is really about – well, the kiss thing illustrates it pretty well, actually. You and I – we have nothing in common. _Nothing_. We don't get along, you don't like me and I don't like you."

"I don't understand."

"Come. Sit with me."

Illumi watched her sink down towards the grass. Once again, her dress pooled around her and made her look as though she were a part of the forest. Like a silky-haired violet, peering out from the ground. She said nothing, waiting, and only after some time of impervious, mistrustful deliberation did Illumi relent. He sat too, up straight and unflappable, as Datari offered him a – surprisingly soft – smile. It looked wrong on her. Objectively pretty though she was, she did not have the face for a smile; it made her look like she was in pain, it made her look a little uglier. The realisation drove a quick, sick pleasure through Illumi. Datari couldn't affect him like she thought she could.

Or maybe she just wasn't trying to. That was also a possibility. Her family may have been second-best, but she still would have been a dangerous person to underestimate. And so Illumi did not relax into a slouch when she did. He listened for tell-tale signs in her voice, watched her half-woman body for signals that she might spring on him again.

"Our parents don't want us to like each other," she said. "It would be too much of a liability. A distraction. Assassins aren't supposed to _like_ anyone. Right?"

"Right."

"Right. So it suits them just fine if we would rather not have anything to do with each other." Datari plucked at the grass without tearing her gaze away. "When we get married one day, you'll be able to expend all your energy on your family business without getting sidetracked by your sweet wifey. That sounds convenient, doesn't it?"

"It does."

"And you're okay with that?"

"As you said, I would rather be a good assassin than not."

"So there's nobody you'd rather get married to? Nobody you actually like?"

There it was. The crinkle in her words. The crook to her expression that made Illumi's back go stiffer. "Are you asking again as if it were my choice?" he questioned.

Datari laughed. "You're getting it now."

"No. There's no one."

"Really?"

"Really."

"What about my sister?"

Something caught in Illumi's throat. Chiara? Why would he want to marry Chiara? Marry her? Could he even do that?

After their last visit, where Chiara had danced and then refused to speak to Illumi, he had written her another letter and sent it off. He hadn't apologised – why would he, when he'd done nothing wrong? – but in some sort of tender hope, he had told her that he'd liked watching her. And in that, he had hoped she would realise that he was saying a lot. He hoped she would understand that it had taken him hours to write just that one line, and that the whole time he'd been replaying her dance in his head like it was the only memory he had, coloured with the taste of strawberries and morning light and the fine, supple feel of her wrist in his hand.

No reply had come. Illumi tried not to wait around for one, but the more time went by, the more he found himself itching. Day-dreaming. Wanting to dig up the first letter she had sent from their hole in the garden. He had buried it there, in a shoe box, for no one's eyes but his.

But that was only a letter. That didn't mean he wanted to marry her.

Datari's smile widened, and took on a more portentous tinge. "I knew it," she said. "I knew it. You do like her. Tadashi says you're just a creep, but you _do_ like Chiara."

"That's not–"

"That's why you wanted her to dance, isn't it? She was so upset, she thought you were making fun of her." Like some kind of bird, Datari screeched in delight. "But it's all because you like her! And she likes you! Illumi and Chiara, sitting in a tree, k-i-s–"

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

Illumi's heart did that thing. Aggressively. He blinked at Datari, feeling his face sink into some sort of terrible expression. "Why would you say that?"

"What? That you like Chiara?" Datari cocked her head, suddenly looking less like a woman and more like a little girl. A curious, cruel little girl. "It's true though, isn't it? Or… oh! _Oh_! You didn't realise it? No! I thought it was so obvious. Mommy told her to leave you alone, but she wouldn't stop talking about you after we first met."

Datari flicked her hair again. "Illumi-kun this, and Illumi-kun that," she continued. "And my god, she was so jealous about me getting to come here this week. She wrote out her reply to your letter about twenty times, I think. Speaking of which," raising her eyebrows, animated and Chiara-esque, "I must give you her letter. She asks that I bring back another one from you when I go home."

"You're mistaken."

"Excuse me?"

Illumi shook his head in an attempt to convince himself. "I don't like her. And she doesn't like me. Not in the way you're saying."

The girly expression vanished into a sneer. Datari leaned towards Illumi, speaking in a low, inimical voice, "Then what? Are you dense, Zoldyck? One too many hits to the head or something?" She tutted. "Believe me, Dashi and I are surprised too, but Chiara has always liked creepy things. Tell her a scary story and she giggles. Introduce her to a bug-eyed, robotic Zoldyck boy and she goes all cutesy. Do you know, Mommy showed us a photo of you before we met? Chiara keeps the photo in her music box, where she keeps all her other weird shit. Like dead butterflies and a squirrel skull."

Somehow, that made Illumi's heart rush even more, beating against the walls of his ribcage with a vengeance. He tried to stop it, but he only felt himself smile. "Oh."

"So _anyway_." Datari pressed her hand down the top of her dress, and pulled out a pack of gum. Mother had done this once – stored something between her boobs. Illumi blushed, and looked quickly to the trees. Datari continued, "I didn't tell you this for nothing. I actually have a proposition for you. Gum?"

"No."

"Suit yourself." She unwrapped a piece, and began to chew. Thankfully, she left the pack at her side rather than putting it back down her dress. "We both understand that we're not expected to like each other. Likewise, we both like other people. So, to keep everyone happy, this is what I suggest – we'll spend time together like this, do as our parents ask and all. We'll get married someday. _But_ , between the two of us, we are free to see whoever we want."

"I don't understand."

"Some people call it an open relationship."

"Open?"

Datari groaned. "God, you're slow. We can _see_ other people, even if we're married."

Illumi frowned. "I don't understand. Why would we do that? Mother and Father would never allow it."

"That's the thing. They don't need to know. I'm very good at keeping my relationships secret. You can figure out how to do the same."

"But–"

"But, what, Zoldyck?"

"You'll be _my_ wife."

She blew a bubble, pink and pale. When it popped, Illumi watched her tongue wrap around it like a worm. She chewed, chewed, chewed, staring at him with annoyance. "Yes. I will. And I'll rear your Zoldyck babies like I'm supposed to. But I will also fuck whom I want, when I want, because I am not prepared to give up the boys I like for _this_."

Conspiringly, she lowered her voice, "Whether you do the same or not, it's up to you. But I saw how you looked at my sister. Boys don't just look at anyone like that. Chiara is still little, so she doesn't quite know how she feels yet. But when she figures it out, she'll be heartbroken if you pretend not to feel the same." Chew, chew. Another bubble, another flash of tongue. "That'll put all of us in a very tough position, don't you think?"

No response. The only sound that carried between them was the wet squelch of the bubble gum and the watchful titter of birds overhead. Time was passing quickly, though nobody would wonder where the two of them were – nobody would worry about them getting back too quickly. Illumi considered her words, suffering over them through a sort of daze. She was fifteen, only two years older than him; he had a world more experience than she could ever hope to have as an assassin. And yet, the gap between them suddenly seemed tremendous. Unbridgeable, even.

She was some foreign creature, closer to an adult than Illumi, and suggesting things he himself would never have thought of. Out of the box. Rebellious to the point of being lethal. It held an appeal Illumi couldn't explain. She told him things that were so, so very tempting to believe – that Chiara liked him; not only like, but _liked_ him. That something could come of it, if Illumi wanted it to.

Did he want it to? Did he believe it?

Datari held her hand out to him, white and faintly trembling. Her nails were long and painted in mulberry purple. Blue veins snaked beneath her skin. "So," she said, sounding like Dahlena in her pointed, splintering tone, "do we have a deal, Illumi Zoldyck?"


	9. Chapter 9

_Two Years Later_

Thirteen was a special birthday for a lot of reasons.

In the first place, it meant being a teenager. A little woman like Datari – thirteen was when one could drink champagne at dinner, and wear lipstick as dark as bruised plums, and go to bed later than ten o'clock. In preparation for such adult things, for _thirteen_ (!), Chiara had thrown away several stuffed toys and had started eating more vegetables (she hated every moment, but apparently it was very mature to like your greens). Not long now and she too would be a grown up, with an elegant neck and careful eyes that glimmered cat-like behind veils of cigarette smoke.

More than that, thirteen was finally old enough to do jobs. This had been promised to Chiara for years now. _Just a little more training. Just a little more growing_. Datari had gone on her first mission at nine; Tadashi at seven; Chiara, somehow, just hadn't ever been able to catch up. Mommy always said she was too small, still too much of a child. Mamma said she was too distractible, too gullible, too stupid. No amount of beating or isolation seemed able to change that.

But finally! It was happening!

Chiara would leave for Yorknew City in eight days. There was a politician somebody wanted dead – the details were apparently irrelevant. All that mattered was that Chiara was 'perfect' for the job. Mommy and Mamma had never said that before! That she was _perfect_ for something.

Tadashi and Datari didn't seem happy though. They had fought with Mamma for many weeks about the job, and had ended up with burns on their chests in the shape of stars and paper cuts on their fingertips that burned like acid. This, despite how Chiara asked them not to argue. How she had suffered to watch hot pokers being pressed along Tadashi's collar bones, and how she had squeezed at Datari's bloodless fingers in way of a plea. There was no need for them to fight. She was _perfect_ for the job… Mommy and Mamma had said so!

"You _are_ perfect, Chi-Chi," Tadashi had said one night, after lights-out. "Still. They're making a mistake."

"But why?"

"Because your target is going to want you to do bad things before you're able to kill him. That's the only way you're going to get close enough."

"But I don't understand."

Then came Datari, like she was spitting poison through their bedroom's darkness. " _Exactly_."

Chiara still didn't understand.

But if Mommy and Mamma had made up their minds, she didn't need to understand. She only needed to trust them. No matter how much of a bad man her target was, her mothers would have a plan. And anyway, Dashi and Tari were probably just being disagreeable because Illumi was coming to visit for the week. The whole week. Yes! That was the third thing about turning thirteen – because it was such a special birthday, Chiara had been allowed to ask for any gifts she could possibly have wanted. _Any? Any at all?_ she had confirmed. _Any at all_! Mommy had promised.

So she asked for Illumi Zoldyck.

Not a doll version of him, with black button eyes and floppy wool hair, but the real version.

For him to visit her and not Datari (so that she could have him all to herself, just for a little while). Already, the Zoldycks came by so little, and when Chiara did get to see Illumi it was for such a short time that she was left with a grey, incomplete feeling whenever he had to leave again.

Illumi Zoldyck would be her favourite birthday present. He was strange as a ghoul, empty-eyed as the sculptures Mommy and Mamma kept around the house, and Chiara couldn't think of a thing more fascinating. He gave her the same feeling butterflies and clockwork toys did – an insatiable curiosity to rip off wings and to pull open parts, to see the tightly wound inner workings behind his funny, blank stare. To this, Chiara always felt she was getting close, always clambering to the very edge of discovery before spiraling backwards once again. Because Illumi could never stay. Because Illumi wasn't and couldn't be hers like a doll or a small, dead animal could be.

Which was fine. He was going to marry Datari, anyway. Which was fine. Even though it did leave Chiara's tummy in a spasm to think about; even though it did make her pulse stutter and seethe whenever Datari spoke about Illumi to make Tadashi jealous.

She couldn't admit it made her jealous too. To do so would unleash Datari's cruel, unremitting teasing – _Chiara and Illumi, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G_ – and would only put Tadashi into even more of a bitter sulk – _Why don't you both just leave and go live with the Zoldycks then?_

It wasn't like that.

Chiara liked Illumi, but not like that.

It was just that he was her first ever friend. Her only friend.

Of course, Illumi said assassins didn't need friends. He and Chiara only got along well as associates, as fellow assassins (despite the fact that Chiara wasn't a real assassin just yet). And if he wanted to call it that, that was okay. But she would call it friendship, because he was everything she'd want a friend to be. Or… almost everything. He wasn't completely hers. She couldn't sow her name into his neck like she could with stuffed toys. Eventually, she always had to relinquish him to Datari or to Mommy or to Missus Kikyo.

But this week, he was all hers and hers and hers alone!

He arrived that afternoon in an ugly tracksuit top with a turtleneck underneath. Past the maids and through the front door, Chiara only saw him, lanky and rigid and haloed by harsh light. And perhaps it was a little impolite, a little too bold, but she ran to greet him. She shoved past the maids so that they gasped, and almost knocked Illumi over – she could feel him rebalancing himself, his limbs and back going tauter still as she threw her arms around his shoulders. Up on tip-toe, grinning into the crumpling material of his jacket as his arms dangled in an uncertain hold around her.

He was almost a whole head taller than she was. He smelled faintly of something warm and metallic. He didn't like hugs, but had told Chiara a few visits ago that he didn't mind so much if it was her, that she could hug him if she wanted to, whenever she wanted to.

"Lumi!" she gasped into his shoulder. "Hello! Long time no see! I'm so excited you could come!"

Awkwardly, like he always did, he patted her back. "Yes," he said. "My parents are glad to have come too."

"Huh?"

Another voice, "Hello, Chiara-chan."

Chiara promptly let go, feeling her heart fizzle out in her chest and her cheeks go shame-coloured. Behind Illumi stood Missus Kikyo, thin and cold and frightening – her smile carnivorous and expectant – along with Mister Silva Zoldyck. Watching. Baby Alluka stared dully from the crook of his arm. Killua clutched to Missus Kikyo's dress.

"Thirteen tomorrow," Missus Kikyo cooed, like she was talking to a wounded animal. "Such a big girl, Chiara-chan. Grandfather is sad he couldn't come."

"Oh. Oh, no, that's okay~"

"You look surprised," Illumi said. "Weren't you expecting us?"

Dizzy with surprise, indeed. Chiara mustered a smile. "It's just that I didn't think everybody would be here."

"Milluki isn't here."

"We couldn't miss such a _special_ occasion," Missus Kikyo said. "Come, let the maids show us to our rooms. Alluka is due for a feed and Killua for a nap."

Killua looked up at his mother in horror. "But you said Chiara-chan would play with me!"

"Later, Killua-chan."

They followed the maids inside, Missus Kikyo in a swish of bright material and perfume, Mister Silva without so much as a glance down at Chiara.

Of him, she saw very little. Even Datari had close to nothing to do with Illumi's father. But whenever he was around, Chiara felt herself frozen in a state of half-terror, half-awe. Like with Illumi, there was something tremendously fascinating about him. Unlike with Illumi, Chiara couldn't put her finger on exactly what. A little shamelessly, she stared after his hulking form, heart beating hot and red in her ears like a hammer swinging itself between the walls of her skull.

Even if she hadn't expected Mister Silva himself, she shouldn't have been so shocked that Illumi hadn't come alone. Of course she shouldn't have thought he would! Why on earth would he have come alone!? Maybe it had been a stupid request to make. Stupid to be disappointed. Feeling a shudder through the depths of her chest, Chiara dropped her head, suddenly too embarrassed to look anywhere but at the floor.

Illumi lingered in the doorway. She stared at his sneakers, feeling him stare back.

"I was happy when you asked us to come," he said eventually.

Chiara nodded. "I'm happy too."

"Then why aren't you smiling anymore?"

She shrugged. "Just surprised, I think. I thought – I mean, I only asked _you_ to come – Missus Kikyo and your father and your brothers… I didn't know they'd be here too."

"Alluka's still a baby," Illumi said, apparently confused. "We couldn't leave him with Milluki."

"Mmm."

"And I wanted Killua to come."

" _Mmm_."

"Ah! I know." Blithely, he patted the top of Chiara's head – and when she looked up at him, she was surprised to find a small, crooked smile. "You're upset because you didn't get to finish your hug. Is that it? Yes. You were interrupted." Then he put his arms around her, not quite a hug, but close enough to one. Through the crumply material of his jacket, Chiara could hear the dim _ba-bump! ba-bump!_ of a heartbeat. "You may try again now, if you like."

They stood like that for a while: Chiara's arms circling their way uncertainly back around his back, Illumi remaining very still and very stiff. He'd never hugged her like this before (or, it would be better to say, he'd never actually hugged her at all – it was always the other way round). Sheepishly, Chiara smiled, and pretended not to notice the way he fiddled with the end of her ponytail, hoped he didn't notice how she pressed her cheek ever so slightly more against his collar bone.

* * *

In the morning, Chiara stole a bag of cherries from the kitchen and bolted for the garden.

Nobody else would have been awake – it was still dark outside, the windows frosted blue and glittering. Though it was cold, she went barefoot; though it wasn't very ladylike, she didn't bother to change from her pajamas. Outside, the herby smell of grass rose up as she ran, leaves and dew coating her soles in a thick, icy mess. Her breaths swirled in silvery mists. Before her, the oak tree loomed twisting and leafless, a clawing silhouette against the dim horizon.

 _Today, she was thirteen_!

Illumi was there before she was, fully dressed and leaned against the oak tree. They didn't always spend their time like this, alone at odd and secretive hours – frankly, it felt a little bit like cheating (after all, wasn't he kind of like Datari's boyfriend? Her fiancé, even?). Now, however, when Illumi smiled that funny cat's smile and wished Chiara a happy birthday, it didn't feel that way at all. Should Chiara have felt guilty? She didn't. Only happy. Only warm and full and fluttery like everything inside of her had turned to honey.

Keeping the bag of cherries in his pocket, Illumi let Chiara stand on his shoulders so that she could reach the lowest branch of the oak tree. When she was up, she clambered higher. Higher still, Illumi close behind and making no sound as he climbed. Until they were close to the top with a view over the roof of the estate and out towards the valley, through which a pale sliver of sunlight began its slow rise.

They sat with their legs slung over branches, knees close enough to touch.

They ate the cherries. Illumi chewed slowly and a little mindlessly, as he always did, while Chiara spat out pit after pit in restless succession.

 _Today, she was thirteen_!

Dull and dream-lit, absorbed by some lovely half-world, she was struck by a sleepy urge to drop her head against his shoulder. To say nothing. To forget the daylight as it climbed. Thirteen. This was what it meant to be thirteen – she could put her head against him and nobody would need to know, nobody was there to steal him away. She could have secrets at thirteen, like Datari and Tadashi. Would Illumi stop her? Clandestine, Chiara glanced his way and was thrilled to find him already staring back, cherry between his fingertips, moth-eyed and stolid and setting goosebumps down her arms.

She smiled. "What-cha staring at?"

For a moment, he didn't say anything. Instead, he popped the cherry between his lips, stick sticking out, and pressed his hand into his pocket – from which he revealed a palm-sized black box. He held it out to her. "Here," he said. "A gift."

"A gift from you, or from Missus Kikyo?"

"No. This is from me. Only me."

"Ooh!" She took and opened the box. Inside, rested ornamentally in a bed of purple velvet, there was a golden needle, little longer than a finger and glinting faintly. It swelled and simmered with an ominous aura – Illumi's own. Chiara plucked it from the box and considered it with a hum. "It's scary."

"I thought that maybe you'd like it."

"I love it!"

He made a peculiar sound like a huff or a laugh. "I'm glad." A pause, loaded with unsaid somethings. "I want you to think of me whenever you look at it. Even more so if you use it."

"Am I allowed to use it?"

"Yes, although I would prefer there be no need for that."

Chiara cocked her head at him. "What do you mean?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Nevermind." Touching his hand to hers, he gestured for her to put the needle back. "As long as you like it."

Over the last two years, Illumi had given her a few gifts. _Real_ gifts – quite unlike the dolls or the dresses or the flowers Missus Kikyo usually arranged. The first thing Illumi had given her had been a rabbit heart, jarred and suspended in formaldahyde; the next had been a frog he'd found in the hole in his back garden (a viciously blue, arrow-quick little thing Chiara had named Pixie – she was still alive, feasting on mealworms nightly). Gross, peculiar things that Chiara adored.

She closed the box and held it to her chest. Why she blushed, she couldn't say, though she was glad for the darkness that kept Illumi from seeing.

"Thank you, Lumi," she said. "You give the nicest presents." And then, a little over-excited and very bold, she leaned into him. Wrist to wrist. Shoulder to shoulder. And in a flighty, fond movement, a kiss to his cheek. It was quick, and it was small, but it set a fizzle through Chiara's bones like she had just gotten away with something criminal.

Nothing criminal about it though, Chiara reminded herself. Friends could kiss each other. Datari had told her that.

Illumi blinked at her. Absently, he touched his fingers to where she had pecked her lips, looking dazed and confused. When he continued to say nothing, face hard set in a listless mask, Chiara's heart twinged at the thought that maybe she shouldn't have done that. That she should have said thank you and left the whole thing alone. Stupid! Could something so small have ruined everything? A kiss was just a kiss. It wasn't even a _real_ kiss. But at the same time – Illumi was Illumi. He could have sprung back at any minute and left her dangling in the tree, ashamed and aghast at her own sassiness! To _kiss_ him like that! Even if it was just on the cheek! What had she just done?

Lips twisting, Illumi asked at last, "What – what was that?"

"Umm…" Chiara looked down to the box in her hands. "Just – it was just – I'm sorry! It was nothing. Just a thank you. Please forget–"

"Do it again." Illumi turned his face, and pointed to his other cheek. "On the other side this time."

Chiara gasped. Then, sense of sensibility dissipating, she giggled. And going weak with relief, delightfully numb all through to her fingers and toes, she pressed a longer kiss to Illumi's other cheek. Relishing it. Not acknowledging how it confused her a little bit – was this _really_ what friends did? Mostly, she lingered there a little longer than was maybe necessary, acutely aware of the way Illumi's fingertips grazed hers. His pinky curling around her own, light enough that maybe he thought she wouldn't notice. Staying there even when she pulled away again.

They kept their pinkies knotted for a while longer, saying nothing about it and slipping away quietly when eventually the maids came to find them. Though the thing went unmentioned, it lingered there in the oak tree like a fever, and in Chiara's stomach like champagne bubbles, and in the small space that remained between her and Illumi for the rest of the week.

Horrifyingly, somebody else noticed it - very soon, and very obviously, making Chiara consider that she was not cut out for secrets (even ones as small as a pinky).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chiara's POV Part 1! Would love to hear what you guys think of her character so far. :) See you next time!


	10. Chapter 10

In the playroom, there was a panther. It was muscled and nervy, posed to strike and stuffed with threat. Teeth in a forever snarl. Marble eyes gleaming hungry. As a child, when Chiara had played at being an assassin, the thing had always been her target. She would slice at those dead, orange eyes; pretend to open up its stomach and arrange the entrails across the carpet. Datari and Tadashi would pay her in sweets for her work, and she would taunt the panther with her false victory.

False, because some vague anxiety always lingered down Chiara's spine. Those eyes. Always watching. Always taunting her in return. She wouldn't dare lay a finger on the panther really – to do so without Mommy or Mamma's permission would get her whipped across the palms – and it was like it knew. _You can't touch me. Stupid, useless little girl_. No matter how many games she played and how many times she pretended to kill it, it knew.

That same gaze followed Chiara now.

Curiously, at first, with raised eyebrows and a sharp, thoughtful frown. But soon it became more pointed, more loaded with meanings Chiara couldn't understand.

Whenever she spoke to Illumi in everybody else's company. Whenever she looked at him and he looked back.

It half-thrilled her, somehow, like this too was just a game. She would touch her pinky to Illumi's under the dinner table, and he would press back lightly, and nobody seemed to pay it too much notice. She would whisper things when she knew he'd be listening, and it didn't seem that anybody could hear. And in such little acts of sneakiness, Chiara relished the same fleeting sense of delight she gained from pretending to kill the panther.

She also suffered the same anxiety. Even if nobody could see the things she did, still they seemed to _know_. The fluttering in her lungs and stomach. The fine bite of guilt in her throat. They were not secrets at all, and Chiara couldn't figure out how she had been figured out.

Of course, she reminded herself, it was nothing. Illumi was her friend. Her birthday present. It didn't mean anything, all the stares and the watchful expressions. Just as the panther was dumb and deaf and dead, so too could Illumi's family do nothing to hurt her. Well… they could, but they wouldn't. Surely? They had no reason to. Much as Missus Kikyo always looked on the verge of spitting venom. Maybe, then, it really was all just a game – like flaying, dancing cobras more concerned with looking scary than actually using their fangs.

The idea was comforting. The curiosity of it drowned the anxiety.

And before the week was up, Chiara returned the Zoldycks' stares with restless, eager smiles and unabashed manners. She would cuddle baby Alluka and play with Killua – catching insects, racing around the estate – and would meet Missus Kikyo's piercing gaze head-on. A staring contest. Just a game.

_Why do you wear such big hats, Missus Kikyo? Can you see properly through your visor – how many fingers am I holding up, Missus Kikyo? Missus Kikyo, do you like being a mother?_

Just a game.

"My, my, Chiara-chan," Missus Kikyo said one afternoon in the garden, lips upturned in that red gash of a smile. "You certainly ask a lot of questions."

Chiara fidgeted with her teacup. Kicked her legs beneath her seat. She, Missus Kikyo and Datari were having tea together while Mommy played on the grass with baby Alluka. Somewhere around the estate, Mamma had taken Illumi and Killua to train with Tadashi.

"I like asking questions," Chiara said. "And I like hearing people's answers."

"Our mothers have told her it's rude," Datari added pointedly.

"Hmm. Fortunately, you haven't asked anything terribly troublesome as yet." Missus Kikyo tapped Chiara's nose. "Tell me, Chiara-chan, do you think _you'll_ like being a mother one day?"

"Oh, definitely! Yes, I want to have lots of babies."

"And will they be assassins too?"

"Yup!"

"Hmm." Her attention turned swiftly and deliberately to Datari. "What about you, Tari-chan? Do you and Illumi plan to have lots of children too? It'll be very important that you provide a strong heir to take over the family one day, as you know."

Datari, stirring her tea languidly, betrayed no disgust nor disdain – though Chiara knew it lurked beneath the surface, as it always did when it came to talk of children.

Dark hair in an elegant tumble down her shoulder, like a silky curtain out her sunhat. Lips bruised with glossy, purple lipstick. Datari was perfect as a doll, cool as a creature of myth in the pale afternoon sunlight – it was no wonder the Zoldycks had chosen her. Chiara considered it with a dull, clean ache. She should have been glad Illumi was marrying someone so brilliant – someone as beautiful, as clever, as unfairly talented as Datari. And yet, there was a twinge inside of Chiara like a branch breaking.

(Datari always got the nicest things).

"Yes, ma'am," Datari said in a melodic, melting voice. "Children will be a major priority, though I think Illumi and I will also probably be occupied with other things."

"Such as work," Missus Kikyo prompted.

"Yes, ma'am. _Work_."

"Please, darling, I've told you to call me Mother! You'll be my daughter soon enough."

A polite giggle, like a song bird – not anywhere near the gregarious, snorting thing that was Datari's real laugh. To hear it, Tadashi tickled Datari often. Even at night. When Chiara was supposed to be asleep, she would watch over the rim of her blankets as Tadashi would sneak into Datari's bed and tickle, tickle, tickle – the sounds of restrained giggles and gasps scratching texture into the darkness.

"Soon enough," Datari said, and flashed Chiara a secretive smile. "But not quite yet."

* * *

It was easy to play the game with Missus Kikyo because she was always so quick to react. She would smile back dangerously or look away. She would change the subject if Chiara spoke too much. She would send Illumi to do something somewhere, and would then start a conversation so Chiara wouldn't be able follow (but she did – she always followed him, no matter how rude it was or how Mommy would slap her for it). Missus Kikyo was a fun opponent because it was easy to push her and get away with it.

Illumi's father, on the other hand, was a bit of an issue.

For one thing, he always smiled back at Chiara. Genuinely. A small, surprising twist of the mouth which looked terrifically funny on his big, beastly face.

He answered questions bluntly, unaffectedly, no matter the content – _Do you like dessert, Mister Silva? Have you ever scalped someone, Mister Silva?_ – and in return, he asked Chiara questions too. More than that, he actually seemed to listen when she answered, eyes fixed and full with attention. Like she had anything interesting to say.

Without entirely knowing why, it made Chiara cringe. The lack of a reaction. Or the unexpectedness of what little reaction there was.

"Why is he being like that?" she asked Tadashi before bed one night.

He sat behind her on the mattress, combing her hair out with the pearl comb Missus Kikyo had given as a birthday present. "Maybe he is just being nice," he said.

"Huh? You think?"

"Missus Kikyo is such a bitch, I bet you're like a breath of fresh air for Silva-san."

Chiara frowned. "But he's not that nice to Tari, I don't think. He doesn't even talk to her."

"Yeah. Tari can be a bitch too, you know. She wouldn't be anything special to him."

"Do you think Tari is special to Illumi? Just a little bit?"

With a harsh tug of her hair, Tadashi peered over at Chiara with an incredulous expression. "God, you're such a baby," he grumbled. "You really can be dumb sometimes."

The week went by. Chiara lamented the fact that, with each passing day, she felt no different now – at thirteen – than how she did when she'd been twelve (no more an adult, no less a child); and that with each passing day, she was closer to having to surrender her time with Illumi – sunrises on the highest branches of the oak tree, him using his needles on frogs ( _Make it hop again, Lumi!_ _Make it croak again!_ ), she coming up with any number of games for them to play to avoid saying goodnight – and finally, with each passing day, Mister Silva's attention only grew more intent. More and more like the unremitting stare of the panther in the playroom. Boring into Chiara's skin. Never giving her the satisfaction of a blink, a moment's distraction.

By the last night of the Zoldycks' visit, she was forced to wonder if perhaps Mister Silva had started it on purpose. Could he tell it frustrated her? That she didn't want to play the game anymore? He spoke to her over dinner when she only wanted to speak to Illumi, and the best of her responses would be to blush. To let her words tumble out in a high, childish babble because she had been beaten.

 _And he knew_.

 _Silly little girl_.

"Is something wrong?"

Chiara looked away from the panther, silhouetted in orange by glow of the fireplace, and back to the checkers game between her and Illumi. He sat on the floor across from her, feet long and bare and white white white. Same ugly tracksuit top as the one he had arrived in. Eyes set on Chiara, his head cocked in a hard question mark of an expression.

She smiled. "You're going to win this game. Again."

"Is that what's bothering you? Do you want me to let you win?"

"No, Lumi. Nothing's bothering me."

"You're quiet."

"So?"

"You're never quiet."

"Oh. Right." Chiara leaned her chin onto her knees, still looking at Illumi. "I guess that would seem a little funny."

Curiously, he mimicked her – he curled his long legs to his chest, pressed the sharp point of his chin to the valley between his knees. "If you're nervous about your job, you should do something to calm your nerves," he said, matter-of-fact. "Immediately. It will only give your target an unnecessary advantage if you're distracted by your feelings. Nervousness is not becoming of an assassin."

"Are you worried about me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly that." Smile curling wider, cheeks warm from the fire place and her last sip of champagne, Chiara resisted the urge to reach out and tap Illumi's knuckles. "You ask a lot about whether or not I'm nervous."

He didn't answer immediately. But when he did, it was with a peculiar quietness. "I don't think you should go."

"Why not?"

Again, he took a moment to answer. "You're so... small."

"Killua's small too."

"Yes. But you're not Killua."

But what did that matter? "You could come with me, if you wanted. Maybe," Chiara urged, trying not to sound as enthusiastic as the fluster of bubbles in her chest might have suggested. "It would be nice, I think. Mommy has arranged a room for me, so she could probably arrange one for you too, and then after I've done the job we could–"

"No." Illumi shook his head. "I have my own target to dispatch once my family and I leave. Father allowed me to put it off to see you this week."

"Oh. Well ~ next time, then! Let's go on a mission _together_ , and then you can see that you have nothing to worry about. Hmm? Would you want to do that?"

"Mmm. Perhaps."

Chiara leaned in closer, voice lowering to speak as though they were conspirators cradled in the secret safety of the playroom's honey light, impervious to the knowing glare of the panther beside them. "And if you could," she began, "would you go on this job with me?"

"Yes." Illumi tipped his head to the side again, and cracked a tiny smile. "If I could. To keep you safe."

* * *

In the morning, Chiara didn't rush first thing to the oak tree. Instead, having dressed and brushed her hair into a tidy-enough braid, rehashing words and words to herself in practice, she dashed through blue-lit corridors and past silent rooms to where she knew her final chance at winning the game had presented itself. Now, clear as it was that her prize could be Illumi, a new resolve had washed over her. Really, she couldn't say she hadn't thought about it before – in the half-awake, half-dream states of falling asleep, she had considered the possibility of it. Having Illumi with her on her first job.

But now, somehow, the possibility had become a reality. Datari would probably roll her eyes. Tadashi would probably throw a tantrum. But what did they matter if Chiara could win extra hours with him? Outside of the estate. Away from prying eyes (!).

And Mister Silva wouldn't be expecting it.

Near the guest bedrooms, Chiara ran into one of the Zoldycks' butlers first. An old, hulking woman with a monocle who sometimes gave her sweets – Tsubone: shaped like a balloon animal and somewhere in Chiara's top five favourite Zoldyck butlers (it varied from visit to visit).

"Ah, good morning, Chiara-chama," Tsubone said, setting down the pair of suitcases she carried. "You are spry this morning. Might I ask where you are off to in such a rush?"

"I need to see Mister Silva. It's _very_ urgent."

"Ah. Clearly. I see you even brushed your hair for it. May I?" With a hand upon her shoulder, Tsubone turned Chiara steadily. "The trick to doing a braid is to keep your three strands as even as possible, you see. That way, you don't end up with lumps." Fingers clawed to comb. Nails separating Chiara's hair into paths quickly and gently.

Bemused, Chiara put up none of the resistance she usually dealt the maids. "I don't normally do my own hair," she said.

"Of course, Chiara-chama."

"Does it look better?"

"Much. Now, if you're looking for Silva-sama, he should be by your oak tree."

"Huh?"

"He's expecting you."

Whether the thrum of Chiara's pulse was alarm or disappointment, she couldn't say – nonetheless, it made her skin prickle with feeling, hot despite the misty cold outside. She ran a little slower than before, hands curling and unclenching in anticipation, grass slapping wetly against her shoes when at last she reached the garden.

Indeed, Mister Silva was leaned against the trunk of the oak tree, already watching as Chiara came around the house and into view. A trap! Dastardly fate! She could barely see him through the frail light, but could feel him staring. Of course she could. Like an ominous cloud settling over her the moment she began across the stretch of lawn towards him.

He greeted her first. "I thought I'd find you here. Bright and early."

"You expected me." Chiara blinked up at him, suddenly aware exactly of what Illumi meant – she felt small. Very small compared to Mister Silva and crushed ever further by the obscurity of the morning. She bundled her hands into fists, tried to keep her voice from betraying her dismay. "Please tell me how."

"Intuition."

"Oh."

"Illumi also speaks about you. He told me you've been meeting here every morning."

"Illumi talks about me?"

Mister Silva made a sound like a chuckle, carried upon the air by the shape of mist. He bent down to his haunches, and even still, remained ever so slightly taller than Chiara. Eyes bright, like a cat's, he seemed to consider her. "You and I have not spoken very much until now," he said.

"No, Mister Silva." Chiara nodded her head. "You're a very busy man. And I'm not very important that you'd need to speak to me ~ or, at least, that's what Mamma says." It occurred to Chiara then – "I'm sorry if visiting me this week was inconvenient for you, Mister Silva. Illumi said he had to put off a job to see me." She bopped forwards in a clumsy bow. "It was the nicest birthday gift, if it means anything."

"Mmm. We are a very busy family." With a finger to Chiara's forehead, Mister Silva made her stand straight once again. Eye-to-eye. "But rest assured, I would not waste time on inconveniences."

Chiara nodded.

He continued, "I was curious, you see. About what has my son so fond of you as compared to your sister."

"Illumi and I are friends."

"Friends. I see. As Illumi's _friend_ , then, have you put any thought towards how you feel about him and Datari getting married?"

The ache returned, and placed a lid on Chiara's lungs. "No, Mister Silva."

"Is that the truth?"

"Am I in trouble?"

"No, no." He balanced his hand on top of Chiara's head – the weight of it was comforting, somehow. Warm and heavy like a thick, wool blanket. "I'm only interested in hearing your opinion, Chiara."

For some confused moments, she allowed herself to linger there. Aware of how easily he could probably flatten her with that one hand alone, and yet still oddly soothed by the pressure of his palm. It was not like Mommy or Mamma's, or even Tadashi's. It was solid. Undeniably and frighteningly real. To think too much about it, of how he held her there and watched her as though she were a butterfly caught in a jar, made Chiara shiver out from his hold.

"Mister Silva, I have something to ask you," she said, eventually, when her voice returned to her. "Sort of a favour. Or ~ I don't know. But I know Illumi has to work, and it'll probably seem weird that I'm asking this, but ~ well, you know I have my first job in a few days. And I was really looking forward to going alone, but I think I'd like it even more if – if – well ~"

"Well?"

"I'd like it a lot of Illumi could come with me."

"Oh? I see." He cocked his head to the side in a way that was painfully familiar – Chiara almost wanted to laugh at the sight of it. Thoughtfully, Mister Silva sighed. "It's as you said. Illumi has a job to do."

Chiara had thought of that. "Can I ask a sensitive question?"

"If you must."

"How much will Illumi get paid?"

As usual, the question did not seem to take Mister Silva by surprise. "It's a relatively straightforward job," he said. "So in total, he'll be receiving five million jenny, of which he will take a certain percentage."

The number slapped Chiara through the gut. "Five?"

"That's right."

"Five _million_? You could buy so many cakes for that amount! That's crazy! Is that even allowed?"

A chuckle. "The very reason assassin work pays so much is because it's not technically allowed."

"Oh, right ~ I guess. Anyway!" Chiara composed herself with a delicate huff, a hand clenching nervously behind her back. "It's a little bit more than I thought it would be, but I thought that maybe we could make a deal. Would you make a deal with me? Because I always keep my promises. And I'll do my best to pay you back as quickly as possible ~ but what I was thinking was that, well, yes. I could pay you back for the job Illumi would have done."

"Pay me back?" Mister Silva sounded amused.

"Mmm." Chiara nodded, more sharply than was maybe necessary. "It'll take me a while. But I can give you all my cuts from all my jobs."

"That's a big responsibility."

"I know."

"You'd make a deal like that for Illumi?"

"He's my friend."

No response. Only that same, loaded stare, glinting metallically as the sun began its pastel-hued rise. This was a decisive point, Chiara realised – to back down now, to flinch or even to breathe, would be to fail. She would lose. She couldn't bear to lose – so she stared back, biting down so hard against her tongue that she was sure she tasted blood. And when a smile coiled itself into Mister Silva's face, her heart threw a fit in her ribcage. And when he lifted his thumb to his teeth, piercing the calloused flesh so that a dewdrop of crimson pooled upon its print, she went a little dumb with surprise.

Unmovable, Mister Silva held out his hand to her, thumb bared and waiting. "I accept your deal," he said. "We'll seal it as Zoldycks would do."

"Really!?"

"Better be quick, Chiara."

Quick, quick, Chiara pressed the tip of her thumb to her teeth too – unfazed by the prick, not stopping to stare at the globe of blood as she would usually do. A little giddy with disbelief, she flattened her thumb against Mister Silva's, astonished anew by the impossibly small size of her hand alongside his.


	11. Chapter 11

_Present Day_

All at once, her bones felt hollow and filled to the brim. Emptied of their marrow. Replaced with dull, leaden aches.

Or was it her veins, knotted as wires and parsimoniously spitting blood where it should have flowed freely?

Or was it her lungs?

Her stomach and liver?

Or was she just outrageously bored?

Chiara spent most days in silk dressing gowns, ghosting about the mansion in a constant state of wait. One more hour until he came home. One more day. One more week. Counting, counting, counting down the minutes that made up her very small life of waiting, waiting, waiting for Illumi.

In the mornings, at the dressing table, Amane would brush her hair while she picked through breakfast – cherries from heavy silver bowls, croissants on heavy porcelain plates. Medicines with her tea, never with coffee. (Coffee wasn't allowed. Kikyo had gotten it into her mind that caffeine stunted the chance of pregnancy.) Afterwards, without bothering to get dressed, Chiara would go outside. Sit in the forest. Pluck at the grass. Sometimes, if Mike came sniffing, she'd throw a ball for him or would scratch behind his ears, entertained by the wag of his matted tail and the meek whimpers that escaped him.

Illumi insisted Chiara only play with Mike if a butler or another family member was around – _He's a guard dog_ , he always said _, not a lapdog. You could get hurt._

Most afternoons, she would have dancing lessons with Kalluto. She'd teach him certain movements, small sections of choreography, and then would let him move around as he pleased while she played the shamisen. It was the only instrument the Zoldycks had in the mansion. Illumi had promised they'd get more: a harp, like the one Tadashi had always played; a violin, like Datari's.

Lunch – too many greens, too much meat, Chiara pushing it all around her plate in bland hungerlessness. The butlers would prompt her to eat, like adults would a child. _Open wide, Chiara-sama, one more big mouthful_. They'd be the ones to get in trouble if she didn't put on weight – worse still, if she lost more. She didn't think she particularly cared. Then there would be more medicine – she had stopped asking what sorts. She didn't particularly care.

After lunch, more wandering. Up and down the corridors in search of Silva or Zeno or Kalluto, knowing they'd be nowhere to be found at this hour. She'd go back to the bedroom. She'd gorge herself on boxes of expensive chocolates until she was too sick to keep it all down.

She'd vomit, and would dread Kikyo's finding out.

She'd lie on top of the bedsheets, surrounded by the gifts Illumi sent and brought from wherever in the world he went.

Hoping hopelessly to catch some whiff of him, she'd hold his pillow to her face.

Wanting to feel something, she'd fumble her fingers between her legs and feel nothing.

Nothing besides angry and lonely – angry that Illumi could leave her behind, forget about her after years of promising they'd be together _always._ Lonely without him. Guilty, too – because even when he was gone, he still took such good care of her. Loved her. And who was she to ask for more?

There'd be dinner, where she'd sit as close to Silva as she could get and as far away from Milluki as possible, and would do her best to speak more than she ate – they couldn't watch the contents of her plate, her chewing, her swallowing if her mouth was already occupied. Though nowadays, if Kikyo could help it, the conversation always turned to babies. And babies always turned to pregnancy. And pregnancy always turned to Chiara's weight and Chiara's health and Chiara's glaring inadequacy as a Zoldyck wife.

"You'll never be able to be of any use to us like this," Kikyo would say. "You really should eat something, my sweetest Chi-Chi."

"Or don't you appreciate what you're given?" Milluki would add.

And Chiara didn't bother saying anything for herself, so it was always – always – Silva who stopped them.

Insatiable as he was though, Milluki would catch her in hallways. Would corner her and poke his stubby fingers at her and would glare in a way that made Chiara feel filthy. "Maybe _this_ is why Illu-nii is gone so much more, nowadays," he would say, sneering. "You're so haggard, it's disgusting. I bet he can't even stand to look at you like this, let alone touch you." Close enough for the smell of sweat to burn Chiara's nostrils. For her to see the oily, bulging texture of Milluki's skin. "That's right. He probably hasn't fucked you in months."

In the mirror, there were half-moons of black-purple beneath her eyes.

The smell of sickness.

Spiking hipbones that couldn't possibly give Illumi children.

Chiara believed Milluki when he said Illumi was probably disgusted by her. Disappointed with her.

Like she was a tattered, tired doll – too frail to be a mother, too drained to do anything about it, too useless to be a real Zoldyck. She was disgusted and disappointed herself. Yet, the family kept her. Illumi always came home eventually. And when he did, the happiness of it – the sheer relief – was almost painful. A shard of sunlight through Chiara's heart. An ecstasy piercing itself through the walls of her skull. It only made her want him more. The longer she waited, the less she felt she could wait any longer.

Night after night, when Tsubone returned to prepare her for bed, Chiara would ask, "Has anyone heard from him? Does anyone know when he'll be back?"

Always a little more desperate than she wanted to seem.

Tonight, brushing and untangling Chiara's hair as she always did, Tsubone said, "He has already dispatched his target, Chiara-sama. However, he has indicated that he has some other business at Heaven's Arena to attend to before coming home. He should be arriving there in the next few days."

"Heaven's Arena?"

"It hosts competitions for martial artists."

"No. I know what it is. But why is Illumi there? He's not participating is he? That would be silly. Nobody there would stand a chance."

"He received information that Killua-sama is partaking in the competition."

_"Oh."_

Tsubone frowned into the mirror. "He sends his love."

Would he know if she sent all her love in return? Would he be able to tell how much she wanted him to come back? Would it matter? Reflection waxy as a corpse and small as a child, Chiara smiled at Tsubone. "Heaven's Arena isn't so far away, correct?" she asked. "It's only a day or so by airship, maybe. Right?"

"Yes. That is correct, Chiara-sama."

"I see. Just on the other side of the continent. He's so close." Chiara lowered her gaze, blinked at herself in the mirror. Her face: tired, bored, useless. Wanting and waiting for her husband with the same bleak yearning as a beggar who'd been given bones. So close. Illumi was so close. At the thought, Chiara felt her smile twitch uncertainly – a little excitedly. She stood from the dressing table. "Please pass me my gown, Tsubone. I need to speak to Grandfather."

"Perhaps it would be best for you to wait until tomorrow morning, Chiara-sama?"

"No. Now. My gown, please."

Some nights, before bed, Chiara would have coffee with Zeno (their secret) and they would play chess or checkers or _go_. Of everyone in the family, he allowed her to get away with the most. He didn't ever ask about babies. He didn't bother her about her weight and her medicines and her doctor's orders. He gave her chocolates and told her interesting stories about his assassin work. Much as Chiara tried not to bother him, she relished her few hours a week with Zeno – really, it was perhaps the only time she wasn't inundated with painful, intrusive thoughts of Illumi.

Illumi, Illumi, Illumi!

She scurried across the mansion to Zeno's room, holding her breath and concealing her presence for fear of running into Kikyo or Milluki – to see them now, to listen to their onslaughts, would shatter the thin determination that drove her forward. _Not good enough. He probably hasn't fucked you in months. Not good enough. Prove that you deserve to be a Zoldyck._ She didn't know if she could prove that. But at least, being with Illumi refreshed her resolve to try harder. She would eat. She would get stronger. She'd be of use if she could _just see Illumi_. Maybe then, if she got a little better, a little less haggard, he'd want to see her too. Wouldn't send his love through the butlers while paying all his attention to Killua. Stupid, ungrateful, undeserving Killua.

Two knocks on Zeno's door. He told her to come in.

"Chiara," Zeno said, perched at his desk and twisting to face her. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry, Grandfather. Do you have just a second?"

"What is it?"

"I _need_ to go to Heaven's Arena."

"Huh?" He raised an eyebrow at her and stood, came close. Bare feet tapping on the floor. Hands behind his back. "For what reason?"

"Illumi's there. I want to see him."

"Tired of waiting, then?"

Chiara smiled. "A little."

"Silva was supposed to arrange for you to join Illumi on one his jobs, no?"

"Yes, but…" feeling her mouth twist unhappily, she shrugged, "I don't think anything's come of that. Illumi would never allow it."

With the slightest sliver of a smirk, Zeno chuckled. "Then why did you bother asking in the first place?"

"Wanted to see what Illumi would do. But now I want to go for real ~ a butler can come with me. I'll go straight to Heaven's Arena and–"

"And you've come to me, because you know nobody can tell you no if I say yes?"

Chiara smiled again, and nodded with a sneaking delight.

Zeno sighed. "You only just got over your most recent attack," he said, a little apologetically. "And though you've recovered adequately, your health _is_ a precarious thing. Your husband will be quite furious with me if I let you go. Your mother-in-law too – she's probably listening in on this conversation as we speak."

"But it's not far, Grandfather," Chiara said. "And you've said yourself it would be good if I could get out. I'm so _bored_ nowadays…" she regretted the way her voice quavered like a child's, half-playful and half-sullen. She touched a fingertip to her temple thoughtfully. "It'll only be for a few days. Even hours, if need be. Quick, quick! And as I said, I can bring a butler along. Maybe even Tsubone or Gotoh, if you can spare one of them. Or both! I can take both! That'll give Lumi even less reason to complain. And if I can go, then I'll–"

Dismissive – or conceding – Zeno waved his hand. "Go ahead, Granddaughter. Do what you will."

"Huh?" Chiara blinked in surprise. "So easy?"

"As long as you take Canary and Amane with you."

"Why them?"

"Because I say so. Call it a girl's trip. You did those sorts of things with your mothers and sister, didn't you?"

Chiara tried very hard not to think of Mommy and Mamma and Datari. "Not too often."

"Ah. Well, anyway – when did you plan on leaving?"

"Right now. I asked Tsubone to pack my bags."

Zeno smirked again, shook his head. "My, my. You haven't thought this through as much as I thought you would have. Illumi's only supposed to be arriving at Heaven's Arena in the next few days." He raised his eyebrow sharply. "What will you do if you arrive before him?"

Chiara hummed. "Ah!" she raised a finger to show her deliberation. "I'll go shopping! That's what you do on girl's trips, isn't it? For clothing and shoes and things."

A smile. A knowing, throaty laugh. "Excellent," Zeno said. "You may take my card, for the event of emergency shopping. I will give it to Amane and have her prepare a car. Understand though, _you_ will have to deal with the backlash. I won't have anything more to do with it."

"That's fine!" Chiara spun away and was about to rush back to the bedroom. Then she stopped. Turned back to whisper, "Besides Illumi, you're my favourite Zoldyck, Grandfather. Just by the way."

She didn't wait for his reply.


	12. Chapter 12

" _So you're letting Illumi accompany her to Yorknew. You've noticed it, then?"_

" _Yes, Father. Chiara Flaminia seems to be good for him. I'm interested to see where this goes."_

" _You do realise she'd be no asset to the Zoldyck family, of course?"_

" _I beg to differ."_

" _Besides which, she's a lovely little girl but loveliness has no place with Illumi. He will rip her to shreds one way or another, and there will be nothing for us to do but watch."_

" _Perhaps," Silva said. "We'll see."_

* * *

Yorknew City sparkled below them, haloed by light and glowing against the night's horizon. For a long time, Chiara gawked out the airship's window – she cooed over the view, beckoned Illumi to look with her. "It's so big!" she cried. "And pretty! It must be super easy to get lost here."

"You're not here to sightsee," Illumi said.

"Mmm? Oh, I know ~ don't worry. I'll get focused as soon as we land."

She carried on looking, and from his seat, Illumi watched her. Gleams of light across her face like splotches of watercolour, hands pressed flat against the window. In puffy sleeves and pale stockings, a bow in her hair, she could have been just like any other little girl: taken up by the city's glitter, excited and delighted by everything, and totally oblivious. It worried Illumi. It wouldn't do. As much as he liked looking at her like this – the sort of thing he'd want to bottle away – he wished she would sit back down. Breathe. Bring herself to the matter at hand.

The first thing Father had said was that Illumi was not to interfere; if Chiara wanted to be an assassin, she'd have to do this on her own. All of it. The worst of it. But at least he would be nearby. He could keep her from getting hurt. The thought brought with it a distinct relief – so long as he was there, nothing would happen. Nobody would lay a hand on her (and live).

She gasped, the sound full of thrill, and pressed her face against the window to get a better look at whatever she'd spotted.

Illumi couldn't remember having been so excited on his first job – granted, it had been a long time ago. Still, when she'd asked him if he would come along, the innocence of the question had startled him. Disturbed him. The restraint of telling her 'no' had brought him so close to pain, it was almost stunning. And then there'd been the disappointment in her face, the assurance that next time, _next time, they'd go together_. Like it bore all the greatest promise: her and him, and next time.

But what of _this_ _time_? God, Illumi hated the thought of her alone. Almost as much, he hated the Flaminia mothers for having planned it that way; he hated the twins for not stopping it.

Perhaps that was why Father had convinced the Flaminia mothers to let Illumi join.

Perhaps Father knew it as much as Illumi did.

Chiara was not like her family. She may have seemed an assassin – with the scars and a prickling, peculiar aura to prove it – but that was only on the outside. In truth, the girl who stared out the airship window was one of inexplicable humanness. She was just a girl: a slight, lovely girl whose pinky finger was finer than a feather, whose dresses fluttered jauntily as she climbed up oak trees and chased frogs in the rain. City lights made her happy. Morbid things made her curious. And Illumi wanted her just like that. He didn't think it would be right or fair for the world to rob him of something that made his heart twinge so sincerely.

From his seat, he rose to stand with Chiara. He pretended to look out over the city when really, he stared hard at her reflection.

"Chiara."

"Mmm?"

He put his hand over hers, fingers between her fingers, squeezing lightly. It didn't seem to startle her but still she tore her gaze from the city to blink at him, blood in her cheeks, rosy against her skin's seashell whiteness. Illumi took her hand from the window and held it, their fingers interlocked in a pattern without any clear beginning. It said much more than he'd be able to manage with words – really, it made words seem unnecessary. Unwelcome even.

Shyly, a smile curled its way about Chiara's face, and she clasped Illumi's hand more tightly. He liked to think he could feel the faint undulation of scars in her palm, where her mothers whipped her. His thumb brushed itself down the side of her hand, committing to memory the thin stretch of flesh over bone. So this was what it felt like: holding hands. A thousand pinpricks in his stomach, up and down his spine, like firecrackers flaring to life.

A chaste possessiveness: she would be his to keep safe. He would hold her hand like this always.

* * *

They watched the target for three days – behind menus in the hotel restaurant, around corners and through windows obscured from view. A politician, a few bodyguards. In it all, Chiara surprised Illumi; she was a model observer. Very good at staying hidden, even better at absorbing important information. Silent. Still. Rarely distracted by all the bustle of the city – the ebb and flow of people on the sidewalks, the dazzle of shop windows, the sounds of traffic deep into the night.

It was only every now and then that Illumi had to remind her of protocol. Only a few times that he really felt the need to interfere. _It would be better if you did it like this._ She'd smile and do as he suggested. _No, not like that. You'll draw too much attention to yourself_. She'd press her fingertip to his lips, blithely – "Ssh, Lumi. It's my job. I know what I'm supposed to do."

But she'd listen to him anyway.

On the fourth day, hair tied with a yellow scrunchie as bright as her yellow socks, Chiara padded through the hotel restaurant to make first contact. Smells of coffee and breakfast pastries. Clatter of cutlery to punctuate the din of voices. Illumi was relegated to a corner to watch, removed and seething silently as Chiara – dressed not in her usual frills and pretty dresses, but looking just like any other city child in cheap denim and sneakers – tapped sweetly on the target's shoulder. She pointed out something at the buffet, rising onto tip-toe in emphasis. _Please, ojisan, I can't reach. Would you please help me?_

There was the delicate flash of a wrist beneath her jersey. That wide, childish smile when the target handed her a chocolate pastry from the very back of the baskets.

He was as unassuming as any other politician: a paunch around the stomach and strands of silver hair to betray his age, a wedding ring on his finger and the family-man smile to match. Amiably, he bent down towards Chiara, suit fitting closely to awkward places.

Illumi could see him speak, could make out the careful shape of his words – "You've got a very pretty accent, young lady. Where are you from?"

Chiara was turned away, but the tremor in her shoulders was that of a giggle.

"And are you staying at this hotel?" the target asked.

She nodded her head, and gestured enthusiastically while speaking.

The target pressed a hand to her head, ruffled her hair. "I see. Well then, you go ahead and enjoy that pastry now."

Off she skipped to an empty table, kicking her legs as she picked at the croissant. Chewing quick and deliberate, licking crumbs from the corners of her lips. It was that easy, despite how bodyguards circled the room like vultures. It was that easy, and from the moment he sat down, the target watched Chiara from across the room. Not long enough for anyone else to notice – lingering glances over his coffee cup, eyes scanning the newspaper and oh-so-easily flickering to her with each turn of a page. Her: feigning ignorance, pretending that every purse of her mouth and dainty flick of her shoulders wasn't intended entirely for him.

And Illumi, with no sense of surprise, suffered through his own revulsion quietly. Hating everyone the longer it went on.

Two more days. Chiara, in pastel sweatpants and pleated skirts and branded t-shirts, bumping into the politician in hallways or the hotel foyer. The politician, surprised and delighted – _Oh! You again!_ He'd laugh. He'd touch her hair, her shoulders, her arms. _And what is your name? And where are your parents?_

This was how the Flaminias did their deeds.

Where Illumi's family would stalk, study, strike silently and decisively, the Flaminias played with their prey. They dazzled in all the most tailored ways – from the clothing they wore to the words they used – so that their targets would die with stunned expressions and hints of disappointment in their hearts. Oh! That such lovely things she be so deadly! It attracted sadistic clients. This time was no different.

The politician in question was not known for his enemies nor his vices. Both lurked in the shadows, removed and well-concealed from the knowledge of polite society. It took underworld connections to know that he liked pretty little girls with absent parents, that his business trips were as much for politics as they were for 'pleasure'.

Chiara played the part perfectly.

Kei and Dahlena had said she'd be just right for the job, after all.

For it, Illumi wished them dead.

Finally, on the evening of the seventh day, it came time for the finale. In an unoccupied room on the same floor as the target's, Chiara used a razor to slice through her dress and into her thigh. She flinched, hissed breathily as blood bloomed in brilliant scarlet against blue cotton. It was not serious – just enough to attract attention, unlikely to even leave a scar. As quickly as it happened, Chiara forgot about it. She smiled at Illumi and gestured for the plastic bag he held.

He held it out, saying nothing as she dropped the red-rimmed razor into the bag.

Hands ghosting over his, she sealed it up. "What's wrong, Lumi?"

He didn't bother asking what she meant. "This is not a good job for you."

"Why? Haven't I done well?"

"You have."

"It's been easy until now." Standing from the bed, razor now discarded to the side, she tip-toed towards him. "Tonight will be quick-quick, and then we can celebrate with milkshakes on the airship on our way home." Her arms went around his shoulders, her face pressed to his neck. _Oh god_. "Thank you for coming with me this week. It's been the nicest." The smell of her hair, like blossoms. The flash of her palm holding onto his nape as she pulled away. "I hope we can do this again!"

The ache in Illumi's chest refused to yield. Beneath her bright gaze, his hatred for her family and for her target and for himself – for the fact that he was letting her go like this – only festered in greater acidity. Anxiously, he held her there. "I won't let anything happen to you," he said. "I will be right outside the door if–"

"Don't be silly! Just wait here for me." She turned towards the door. "I'll be back before you know it~"

* * *

_They sat around the dinner table. No one spoke, though Mommy and Mamma wore indifference well._

_They sipped from their wine, lipstick stains bright on their glasses, and paid no attention to how the twins trembled in their seats. How their hands grasped at each other beneath the table, cold with dread and the weight of anticipation._

" _When will we hear from her?" Tadashi asked at last._

" _Later."_

" _And if we don't?" Datari probed._

" _Then we don't."_

_Powerless. Terrified. Their first jobs had ended without trouble. It had all happened silently and exactly as requested by the clients. Datari had gotten away with little more than bruises on the most intimate parts of her nine-year-old body. Tadashi had managed to wash the smell of intestines off of his hands within a few days, even if the memory had lingered longer. But Chiara wasn't like them. Even if Illumi Zoldyck was there – he'd been told not to interfere. He would though, wouldn't he? Surely?_

_Surely, he knew it as much as they did?_

* * *

The man came by at the exact minute, focused on his phone before noticing her.

Slouched against the hallway wall, clutching her thigh like it hurt, Chiara gasped against messy tears. She'd slapped at her cheeks to make them flare red, she'd rubbed her nose on her wrist to make it seem tender – a mask of little-girl agony. Like she was a whole number of years younger than thirteen. Her throat hurt from swallowing down on her giggles. The cut in her leg throbbed dully, blood seeping thicker and brighter the harder she squeezed. She knew how to cry. Even if she had stopped crying for real years ago.

And indeed, the man bought into it. Bodyguards standing around them, the tip of his shoes to her stockinged toes, he bent down and cocked his head at her in a kind, questioning look. "Now, what's all this then?" he cooed sweetly, and touched a finger to her cheek. "I come back after my meeting to find this little damsel distress! What's got you so terribly upset, young lady?"

In a show of misery, Chiara shook her head. Oh! It was so hard not to laugh! She pretended to flinch away from him, and in doing so brought the bloodied slash of her dress into view. The man spotted it, eyes widening.

"I was – was trying to cut off a – a –a thread from my dress." Chiara sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "The scissors – they – I – they slipped and – and – _and_ –"

"Say no more! We have a Miss Clumsy Fingers on our hands. Where is your mommy?"

Chiara shrugged shakily.

"And your daddy?"

"He went out… Dunno when he'll – I mean – s-sorry, ojisan. I'm not supposed to tell."

There was the smell of smoke on his breath as he chuckled. Not like the spicy, rich scent of Mamma's pipe, but something more sour and old. Chiara had to try hard not to crinkle her nose as the man leaned closer, taking her chin in his hand and lifting her face to look at him. "That's alright," he said softly. "But we shouldn't leave that nasty cut untreated… Come with me. Let me patch you up."

One of the bodyguard's cleared their throat. "Sir–"

He waved a hand dismissively. "No, no. Not now."

Holding Chiara's hand, he helped her to stand and guided her to his suite a few doors down. Gentle, almost unnoticed, his hand lingered in the small of her back. His steps remained even, though quicker than usual, and when they arrived, he had to swipe his room-key twice to get it right. The bodyguards checked the suite first, Chiara standing in a show of shyness at the door with the man at her side. When they were done, two of the bodyguards stayed outside while the others stationed themselves around the room.

"We'll be going into the bedroom," the man said, and guided Chiara towards a separate door. "The lady will need her privacy."

From the hotel's blueprints, Chiara knew it would be easy enough to leave via the balcony. She'd have a while to change her clothes and prepare a wig, after which she could leave down the fire exit and meet Illumi at the car. The security cameras would already have been wiped, though she'd been careful to conceal her face from view as much as possible, so it wouldn't matter much. The bodyguards would probably only check on the situation well after she and Illumi had left.

The man closed the door behind them. The room was warm, too close – the bedsheets were plush and white, the bedside lamps emitting a golden aura. Chiara sat at the edge of the bed, still sniffing at pretend-tears, while the man busied himself in the bathroom.

He brought out bandages, kneeled in front of Chiara.

"Now," he said, and pinched the edge of her dress, lifted it. "Let's see what we have here. Hmm – nothing too serious, I'd say. It won't even leave a scar." He cupped her thigh almost entirely, raising it to wrap the bandage. "And thank goodness for that. You have such pretty skin, it would have been a real shame if you'd hurt yourself."

"Thank you, ojisan."

"You know, sweetheart, I don't believe I've asked your name yet."

"My name?"

"Yes."

"Umm–"

"Don't want to tell me?"

Feigning coyness once again, Chiara shook her head.

"Well, that's quite alright. Perhaps I could call you by a nickname, then." Playfully, he patted her cheek. "Let's see – such a pretty little girl like you, fresh as a daisy. What do you think of Daisy-chan?"

Chiara tilted her head from side-to-side, playing at uncertainty and resisting the urge to say that it was the stupidest nickname she had ever heard. "If you like, ojisan." Then, she touched at her leg, bandaged up and bare. Just below her fingertips, the man's hand rested. "Thank you for the bandage. I will go now, if you'd like."

"Actually, why don't you stay with me for a little while? Come, sit with me while we wait for your daddy to come home."

The bed sighed beneath his weight as he placed himself next to Chiara, hip-to-hip, so close she could smell the smoke and the sour remnants of sweat on his skin. With a lazy sigh, he pulled off his jacket, kicked off his shoes. Then he put his hand back on Chiara's thigh. Mommy and Mamma had said he'd probably want to be friendly, that he'd probably try and get very close to her – and she would have to play along. It was all part of the job, they said.

And when was she supposed to stop playing along?

She'd just know. Mommy and Mamma trusted her.

"How old are you, Daisy-chan?"

"I'm eleven."

"Such a big girl. You have very nice hair. Can I feel it?"

"Mmm. Okay."

It carried on like this. Her hair. Her neck. Her legs again. All the while, Chiara felt something sharp hook into her chest. Something felt strange. Of course, this was what she had expected – this was what Mommy and Mamma had said would happen. And yet, the longer she sat there, the more she felt her excitement fizzle out into uncertainty. Everything took on a bit of a sick hue. The smell of the man's breath and body made her a little dizzy.

But it didn't feel like the right time to stop playing along just yet. If she was going to do what the clients had wanted, she would probably have to carry on a little longer. Wouldn't she? Yes, it was fine. This was fine. Wasn't it?

"Daisy-chan," the man said, mouth now lined against her ear. "Since I'm looking after you like this, can you do something for me? As a thank you?"

She blinked at him.

"Won't you take off your stockings?"

This wasn't what she had expected. But could she say no? Chiara stood, and slowly, shivering slightly, peeled off her stockings. Everything began to feel cold, except the places over her skin at which the man stared. The feeling punctured her lungs, made her voice disappear so that she could only nod when he asked her to take off her jersey too. Then the sash around her waist. Then – "You're being such a good girl. You know what I'd like very much? If you'd take off your dress for me too. Can you do that?"

She didn't want to take off her dress. Was she supposed to be doing this? Would she be allowed to stop? Biting down into her lip, tasting something metallic on her tongue, Chiara shook her head. "S-sorry… I don't… don't think–"

"Oh, sweetheart, if you're shy, let me help you. Come here. You know it would make this silly old man so very happy."

She couldn't move. Her bones had turned to marble. Her stomach rose up into her throat. "I'm sorry."

The man smiled. He rose.

And suddenly, he seemed huge. An impossibility. Before, it had been so clear what she was supposed to do. How she would slit his throat and open his chest and leave his heart like an offering in his lap. But now… _now_ …

His hand was around her chin, harsher than before and digging into her skin like a claw. The world crashed against Chiara in full-force, the room's dim light suddenly brilliant and burning, the erratic shudder of her pulse suddenly a violent drumbeat. _Throb-throb. Throb-throb_. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. She could have thrown him off. She could have run. But her body did nothing. As much as she wanted to object, nothing came. Nothing, except the man's mouth pressing down on hers, his tongue prying her lips open and licking across her teeth.

Thick, wet muscle. Down her throat. She couldn't bring herself to breathe. She could just barely register how his other hand slipped under her dress and in between her legs.

At last, her hands curled into fists. Stupidly, she slammed them into his chest, tried to push him away. She could have! She should have been able to! But her arms felt little more than vines, and he held her there. He pushed her backwards onto the bed, and weighed himself down on her like an animal on the prowl.

"Stop." There was no voice in her throat. "Don't - please-"

"Ssh, Daisy-chan, this is to say thank you for taking care of you, remember? Just let me do this one tiny thing - it's alright."

His mouth on hers again. She could _taste_ him. No. Oh, please, no. This wasn't what was supposed to be happening. It shouldn't have gone this way – had she failed? Could she do it? No. She'd failed. There were hands pawing at her clothes, and she could remember nothing, could do nothing, and everything inside of her began to writhe and coil and crumble in awful, terrible, revolting ways.

She started to cry. For real.

And when the man moved his mouth into her neck, Chiara screamed like she had never screamed before. "Stop it! Stop it!" His weight buried her further into the bed. He whispered things Chiara didn't understand – such a calm voice, like a lullaby. In her skin. Reverberating through her veins like beetles and worms through dirt. His fingers. The smell of smoke and sweat. Chiara gasped painfully, blurred through real tears and confusion and terror. "Illumi! Please! _Illumi_!"

Then there was blood on Chiara's face.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oopsies. This was shorter than I originally planned.

_Present Day_

Illumi was undecided whether or not he would watch Killua's matches. He couldn't pretend to be too interested – these initial fights would be no spectacle, wouldn't even mean much as games to Killua. Quite frankly, it was a joke that he had decided to linger alongside his little 'friend' rather than progressing straight to the two hundredth floor. Had he gone ahead, Illumi might have bothered. But alas, Hisoka had omitted that this trip would be a waste of time.

"Aww, don't be like that~" Hisoka cooed over his drink. The bar at Heaven's Arena was beginning to fill for the evening, honey-hued and smoky. The two of them lingered at a table near the windows, well on the outskirts of the crowd where they were largely left alone – that is, apart from the stares Hisoka's appearance and reputation attracted. Kicking his legs out to cross them, Hisoka smirked. "I would have thought you'd be grateful to me. Stick around. Killua-kun will get to the two hundreds soon enough."

Illumi did not look up from the remnants of his drink. "I have other things to attend to in the meantime."

"Oh~? Like what?"

"Family matters."

"Hmm? Is _that_ what's got you looking so distracted?"

Distracted.

Chiara.

At best, Illumi avoided thinking about her while he was away. He fenced her off in tightly barred corners of consciousness, only allowed himself moments of daydreaming when his job was done – _Mission complete. Now he could go home to her_. Even so small a thought always set Illumi's chest quivering.

It was better to forget about her for a few weeks, when assassin-work called for it. There could be no place for distraction. No pointless aching and pining over domesticities. Illumi had even gone so far as to ban Chiara from accessing any communication device. She'd had a personal transmitter for a little while, when they'd first gotten married, but the temptation of her voice had reared itself at invasive, inconvenient moments – Chiara. Chiara. Chiara. Curls in soft purple. Smell of hyacinth and bedsheets. _Hello, Lumi! My love! Why are you calling so late? Are you okay?_

Was she thinking of him? Was she waiting for him? How easily he could ask her, remind her and reassure himself that she was still all his. How anxiously he wanted to hear her say it! It wouldn't do, such maudlin cravings. And so it was better to forget about her for as long as was necessary.

It also kept the likes of Hisoka, who knew nothing of Chiara, from seeing through the fissures in the self-control Illumi so diligently maintained.

Standing from his seat, irritated by Hisoka's pressing gaze, Illumi gestured to their empty glasses. "Another?"

"Ooh, don't mind if I do. Make it another double."

He went to the bar, ordered two more whiskeys.

Distracted, indeed.

The butlers always kept Illumi informed about the situation at home. The spats of passive aggression between Mother and Chiara. The doctor's visits (though Chiara often managed to sweet-talk the butlers or the doctor himself into omitting certain details). Sometimes, there would be the tinge of a reprimand in Tsubone's voice over the phone – "Chiara-sama asks often when you will be returning home, Illumi-sama," she'd say. "She has been sullen the last few days, and hasn't been sleeping well."

Now, she had stopped eating again. She refused to listen to reason. Nobody seemed too sure whether or not they were supposed to force-feed her.

When it came to matters of Chiara, nobody in the family or staff seemed too sure what to do _at all_. Grandfather and Father treated her as a plaything, a doll, and let her get away with what she pleased. Mother could only do so much. The butlers could do even less. Chiara was, after all, _Illumi's_ wife. That didn't change when he went away. And as much as he knew she needed to be disciplined in order to become the proper Zoldyck, he wouldn't allow anyone else to lay a finger on her.

Until then, he'd hardly been able to do it himself. He knew what was necessary, and he should not have hesitated. But he did. And she was taking advantage of it. She was getting bolder than was acceptable, and it was only a matter of time before–

Illumi stiffened.

Something like a breeze. A gentle, thrilling prickle down his neck, his spine.

He turned away from the bar, and for a moment refused to register what was before him. It was an illusion. The trick of a wanting mind. But as much as Illumi stared, the illusion, the specter, did not go away. Powder purple dress and puffed sleeves. High-heeled shoes, ribboned and pointy-toed. No – it was her. She was real, curls in soft purple, cheeks glowing faintly with blush in the bar's evening light. She smiled up at Illumi with all the sparkle of rain on wet leaves, deliberately oblivious to his dismay and the force of Hisoka's stare from across the room.

Chiara cocked her head at him. "Buy me a drink, Lumi?"


	14. Chapter 14

_Present Day_

Something vile smoldered in Illumi's stomach, made him go rigid and cold. Everything grew vivid, too close, senses roused by a garish sense of consternation. Hisoka's gaze burned through the crowd. Chiara's guileless, curious, darling face made Illumi's insides flounder furiously. She shouldn't have been here. Why was she here? Who had allowed her to leave the mountain? The shock of it compelled him to act forcefully and without thought – he seized her arm, wrenched her away from the bar. Too harshly. Too late, she'd already been noticed. She didn't seem to care.

Instead, upon stopping, Chiara flung her arms about Illumi's shoulders and kissed his cheek, flagrantly, rising higher still onto tiptoe despite her high heels. He could feel the bow of her smile against his skin, could feel how others glanced at them in questioning. And as tightly as he clung to her, hoping she would simply disappear into him like a figment or mirage, she remained solid and undeniable and infuriatingly real. A thousand scenarios played out in Illumi's mind: what sorts of diabolical things could have happened to her without him knowing; how long it would have taken before he was to find out; most of all, what he would do to her now to drill into her stupid, lovely head that she'd made a tremendous mistake.

How many times had he told her not to leave, _never_ to leave the mountain? Just like that, she'd disobeyed. Someone had allowed her to – Father? Grandfather? And no one had told him. She was _his_ , and yet here she was – out from his control, like some loose little playmate rather than his wife, and apparently too delighted with herself to acknowledge the misdemeanor.

Stolidly, Illumi pushed her away, held her at arm's distance. "What are you doing here, Chiara?"

"I know you're probably a little surprised!" she said and smiled, that girlish glow only making Illumi bristle more. "But just listen, 'kay? Please don't worry. I arrived last night with Canary and Amane. Amane is just outside, and Canary is in the car. I told them to stay there because I saw you at the bar and thought that maybe we could–"

"Answer the question, Chiara. What are you _doing here_?"

The smile shrank, though only slightly. "I wanted to see you."

"Is that it?"

"Should there be more?"

"You disobeyed me. You're not supposed to be out like this."

"I know, but–"

"But what?"

She shrank into herself, fingers touching uncertainly at the ribbon in her waist. "You were so close by," she murmured, not quite to Illumi. "You were so close and I thought – I thought it would be fine if – you know, if I just came. If we could spend some time together." Lips pursed tightly, she looked up at him with a flickering confidence, a hopeful quirk to her features. "Grandfather said it was fine. I told him I wanted to come and that I wanted to see you and he said it was fine. And anyway ~ you're finished your job now, right? So I won't be distracting you. Even if you want to watch Killua, there won't be much for you to do since he's only–"

"For goodness sake. Stop talking."

At least, she listened to that. She went quiet and lowered her eyes, shame-faced as a shy, shrinking violet.

Likewise, Illumi sighed. "You've acted very selfishly, you know. Don't you understand that it's for your own good that I've asked you to stay home?" He made to touch her, but changed his mind. "Anything could have happened to you between last night and now – then what? You endanger the whole family that way. Do you think that's fitting of a Zoldyck? Should we just run around as we please without any regard for our loved ones? Hmm? Look at me." She did so, eyes luminous with feeling. Illumi continued, "And what about me? What am I supposed to feel now that you've betrayed my trust, Chiara?"

"Ooh, Illu ~ that's quite a speech! ️♠️"

Hisoka.

Chiara stiffened, not uneasy nor alarmed as much as she seemed to be stunned. She didn't turn her head towards Hisoka as he came to loom behind her. Instead, in a way that made Illumi a little softer, she coiled herself tightly into his side, leaning in close as Hisoka leaned towards her – that ridiculous smirk, that leering eye.

"My, my," Hisoka cooed. "Who might you be, little flower? Chiara, was it?"

Above and beyond Illumi's dismay, his disappointment, a vicious protectiveness and jealousy simmered to ever greater life. He watched Hisoka, the incensing glimmer about his eyes' golds. He felt, with harsh attention, how Chiara's aura flickered and flared at his side, like a heartbeat. Faint. Melting as honey. Although he offered little in the way of a response outwardly, he writhed on the inside, only waiting for the right moment to rip Chiara away from Hisoka's grasp.

Her grip tensed around Illumi's arm. "You're a clown," she said quietly, curiously.

"A magician," for emphasis, Hisoka held out a card between two fingers, "actually."

"I didn't know there was a difference."

"Silly girl~"

Surprisingly, she smiled again. "Who are you?" It was an innocent question. Illumi wished she would stop. "How do you know Illumi?" A sweet, welcoming question that made Hisoka laugh.

"Why, I'm his friend."

"Huh. He's never mentioned any _friends_."

"How strange ~ I'd say we're rather close. Aren't we, Illu?" Illumi was given no chance to object. "We've spent quite some time together recently, with the Hunters Exam and all. And just before that, I commissioned Illumi for a very special task."

"Ah."

"To kill me."

"Uh-huh."

"Yup! It's a task I believe I could trust to no one else." Jauntily, Hisoka laughed again. "As a matter of fact, it's a little private joke of ours, but we refer to our contract as something of an _engagement ring_. We even have a little pre-nup sorted out! Nothing too spectacular, I'll admit, but still quite generous. And it illustrates the nature of our relationship quite nicely." Hisoka smirked suggestively, and Illumi considered the possibility of slicing his throat open then and there. "But enough about me ~ tell me again, who are you?"

Face falling into a pursed, blank mask, Chiara stared at Hisoka. "I'm Illumi's wife."

He didn't look surprised.

Had he suspected it? Had he been baiting her? Probably.

"We don't have a pre-nup though," Chiara continued. The smile returned to her voice with a pointed venom, "No need for one, I guess." Her clasp on Illumi's arm loosened, slipped away. "Do you know Killua, too, then?" she asked. "Since you're apparently so close. Have you maybe even met the rest of the family? I'm sure they must all have been delighted to learn that Illumi has a clown friend."

Illumi gripped her wrist so that she stammered. He glowered down at her. "Stop it."

"Oh!" She blushed, crinkled her nose like a little girl on the brink of a temper tantrum. She didn't stop. "I'm sorry, Hisoka-kun. I meant _magician_ friend. As I said, I don't see much difference."

"Will you be joining us for drinks, Missus Zoldyck?" Hisoka asked, a soft hiss and a smile. "I would so love to continue this conversation."

Illumi refused.

Already, Hisoka had come too close and Chiara had gone much too far. How dare she speak so boldly? Endanger herself. Endanger the whole family, once again. Stupid, reckless girl!

_No. I'll be taking her home. This instant._

Hisoka didn't protest, Chiara pouted, and in a swelling fury Illumi dragged her out from Heaven's Arena – hand wrapped as an adder about her wrist, Amane following solemnly behind. Illumi would have words with all the butlers; when it came to Chiara, they took orders from him. Not Grandfather. Not Chiara herself. Only him, if they knew what was good for them. Likewise, he would never allow Hisoka to bring her up. He would never allow her to step foot outside of the mountain again. He would keep a closer eye. He would reaffirm his control.

The car was parked outside, discreet against the night's black coat and the spotlights of city traffic. Illumi, wordless, held open the door for Chiara who, sullen, climbed in without objection. Shopping bags were stowed in excess upon the backseat – pinks and whites, ribbons and brand names, tissue paper sticking out at all angles. Of these, he said nothing. He didn't ask where she'd gotten the money because he already suspected the answer. He didn't ask her what she'd bought because he'd be given the rundown and probably a fashion show at some later point. Inexplicably, the thought made him livid. Such fine, lovely things, tainted by this whole fiasco.

"Will we be returning to the hotel, Illumi-sama, Chiara-sama?" Canary asked from the driver's seat.

"I am forwarding you an address. We will go there first so that I can collect my things. Then to the airport."

"Yes, Illumi-sama."

They shut the divider, plunged into thick silence. There was the hum of the car being started up. The sway of pulling into the streets. It would be about an hour before they reached the airport – longer still before they arrived home.

Illumi didn't look at Chiara, much as he wanted to. "You booked yourself into a hotel."

"I assumed you wouldn't want me staying out on the street."

"So you consider what I want when it suits you, then."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Unacceptable." Where was he to start? "You've disobeyed me. The one rule I gave you. On top of which, Mother tells me you haven't been behaving while I've been away." He shifted in his seat, shopping bags and tissue paper rustling cozily as he did so. He was pleased to find Chiara already staring at him in a flushed agitation. "You haven't been eating again. Is that right? Mother says you miss entire meals sometimes. And she mentioned that you took your brother's latest letter before she could read it? Also, I've been told that–"

"Illumi–"

"This won't do, Chi-Chi-bean. I'm going to have to think of an appropriate punishment."

"Don't be like this."

"Like what?"

She frowned, wilting. The flash of streetlamps and headlights, dulled by the window's tint, fell across her face in warm splashes of colour – such a doleful expression, such vibrant hues. Illumi didn't like to see her like this. It was difficult to remain angry when she looked at him like that. If only she had behaved. He would give her anything, everything, if she would just know her place, if she would smile for him like she always did. Listen to him. Wait for him to come home, like he always did.

But then again, maybe it wasn't entirely her fault. After all, Illumi had turned her into this. He knew it – he had taken all the necessary measures, cast all the right spells, so that there would be nothing in the world for her but him, him, him. Only him. Of course she'd want to see him. Of course she'd want to be with him like this, would wriggle against inconvenient rules to quell the Illumi-sized hole he'd carved in her heart. In a way, this was exactly what he wanted. Or was this only one of many warning signs? Killua had broken away from him without difficulty. How long would it be before Chiara left him too? He couldn't, wouldn't, let that happen. The very thought was heartbreak.

Reaching across the backseat, Illumi took Chiara's hand from her lap. He held it towards himself. He traced kisses across her knuckles. Such delicate things: veins like gossamer threads, blue through perfect white skin, fingers light as sparrow's wings. "Chiara," Illumi said quietly. "Please try to remember that, all of this, I do because I love you."


	15. Chapter 15

The job was done. That was all that mattered.

Illumi had slit the target's throat – brilliant crimson down a starched white shirt. He'd cut open the target's chest, as per the clients' orders, and had removed the slow-beating heart like a fruit being plucked from its tree. Left it in the man's lap. Face frozen in a glazed, gawking contortion. Smell of blood leaking from all over. Bodyguards flung about and dead in just the other room.

The job was done. Illumi told everyone it was all Chiara.

But really, she'd done little more than hold the target's heart in her tiny, trembling hands while Illumi had arranged the body on the bed. She'd stared at it, the heart; squeezed it between her fingers probingly. Not disgusted – not by the organ or its fleshy, animal throbs or the blood – but something else entirely. Her face was ashy. She didn't breathe for long seconds. And when Illumi asked her for the heart, cupping his hands beneath hers as though to hold a goblet, she had looked at him with an expression like surprise.

"Are you disappointed by me?" she had asked.

To which Illumi shook his head. "No. I knew this would happen."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry."

"He tried to–"

"I know."

"And I couldn't–"

"No. You couldn't."

They told everyone Chiara had done it. That was what mattered.

Arriving at the Flaminias' estate, her mothers pressed kisses all over her face, leaving trails of lipstick stains in blushing red and purple. _Your mommies are so proud of you!_ Tadashi and Datari were dull-faced, saying nothing. However, later on amongst the maze of corridors, Illumi found what he was sure to be Datari crying while, alongside her, Tadashi clung to Chiara fervently, head buried in her shoulder and arms crossed tight around her back.

A strange mass of emotion pervaded the situation, like a murk, obscure and oppressive. It was something Illumi couldn't understand; with his family, a job done was simply that. A job. There were no theatrics. No kisses or secreted hugs, no relief or pride or anything of the sort. Just a job. Perhaps though, it was only because this had been Chiara's first. And perhaps there was only so much feeling about the whole thing because, although nobody would admit it, everybody had expected her not to come back. Not successful. Not at all.

That night, Illumi contacted Father. How was Chiara? She was fine. Shaken? No, just fine. Illumi didn't mention the weird colour that refused to leave her face nor the new iciness about her fingers nor the way she kept her head limply down to avoid looking at him.

Father told Illumi that Chiara and the twins would be going away to their family's holiday house in the morning. 'You're free to join them, if you would like.'

"Excuse me, Father?"

'Mother has already arranged an additional bag of clothing for you.'

"I don't understand."

'It's only for a few days. I'm sure Chiara-chan will be happy.' A pause. 'Is there a problem?'

"No," Illumi said. "Thank you, Father."

It seemed to surprise Chiara as much as it did Illumi when he told her. They sat in the playroom together, under the dim gold light and the panther's taxidermied gaze, pushing around the pieces of a chess board without actually playing. Datari and Tadashi had already gone to bed. Chiara was tired – lids heavy over glossy irises, hair a puff around her face – but made no move to leave. She blinked at Illumi dazedly, saying nothing, before looking down again.

"Are you unhappy?" he asked her. "I don't have to come if you don't want me to."

"I want you to come, Illumi. Very much."

"Then what's the matter?"

"It's just – just that – I don't know." She knocked a pawn over with a flick of her fingers. "I don't think I really want to go at all."

"Why not?"

She frowned. "You know why."

Voices quiet and conspiratorial, Illumi wanted desperately to hold her hand again. Or even better, to hold _her_ like he'd done in Yorknew – after everything was finished, a dead man staring out at them in surprise, he had put his arms around her. The smell of blood had seemed stronger somehow. Everything, silent and shaken. Her head had been heavy on his chest, pulse quick and erratic and resounding right through Illumi's own heart; his hand had flattened over her hair, stroking dumbly, tenderly, until she had gotten control enough of her limbs to move. Even then, Illumi had held her a little longer still, confronted by a stark, terrible feeling that something important had been lost.

(He should have intervened sooner, he told himself. He should never have let that man put a finger on her in the first place. She should never have gone – he should have intervened sooner – should have stopped the whole thing in its tracks from the very beginning because he knew, _he knew_ it would have been better for her to have never gotten tangled up with any of this.)

"Next time…" Chiara began gently. "Next time, I think I need to go on my own. I knew you'd come for me. Back there. And I think that made me freeze up. I can't – it won't happen again."

Illumi said nothing.

* * *

It astonished him how brightly everything glimmered, how the warm smell of sea permeated the air. Illumi had been to the beach before, though never on holiday, and so he could only watch, perplexed, as Datari and Chiara went about throwing open windows so that white curtains billowed hauntingly in the salty breeze. They fussed over the view – a steep drop of stone-faced cliff, below which there stretched the cerulean ocean – while maids disappeared through various doorways, lugging Chiara and Datari and Tadashi's colossal baggage.

The Flaminias' holiday home was scarcely furnished, no stuffed beasts or statues or exotic carpets or eerie chandeliers in any of the rooms. There were immense windows and couches of polished, dark wood; beds made up plushly with white sheets; security cameras in every imaginable nook.

The four of them had arrived on the island in the late afternoon and were chauffeured to the estate, spending almost an hour navigating the sheer climb of the driveway. Palm trees and flaming hibiscuses, more security cameras, everything cast in the melting glow of honey-toned sunlight. A perpetual summer, hot and glamorous and, if given enough time, utterly suffocating.

From the moment they stepped foot onto the property, Illumi didn't have a clue what to do with himself.

Chiara and Datari, with their fluttering sun-dresses and sandals, had long-since vanished into the depths of the house in a restless gust of giggles. Tadashi lingered behind, wandering absently up and down, up and down like a lost phantom, while Illumi stared out the window in hopes of looking preoccupied.

Tadashi was at the bar now, in the games room which opened up onto the living area. Illumi could feel eyes in his back.

"Zoldyck."

He turned. They stared at each other.

Tadashi wore white tennis shorts and a shirt to match Datari's dress. Bandy legs and bare feet, curls bunching in his temples like tufts of purple cloud. He looked less an adult than Datari did, balanced awkwardly between young boy and young man. He cleared his throat, fidgeted with something on the bar counter.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"There's beer."

"What else?"

"Wine?"

"No."

"Vodka? Schnapps? Whiskey?"

"Your mothers would allow that?"

Pertly, Tadashi shrugged. "They wouldn't particularly care, I think. As long as we replace whatever we finish." Unwieldy silence. "So?"

Illumi resisted a creeping grimace. "So?"

"No drink, then?" When Illumi didn't respond, Tadashi sighed. "Suit yourself."

He took a glass from beneath the counter, poured himself what looked to be vodka. Then he came to stand with Illumi at the window, sipping slow and deliberate from his glass. More unwieldy silence. Somewhere in the house, Datari and Chiara's voices rose and fell like the echoing sopranos of a violin.

"What are they doing?" Illumi asked.

"Probably changing their clothes again. I think they want to go down to the beach before dinner, so they're probably choosing which swimsuit to wear and which sandals and how to do their hair and which sunglasses and – well, you get the idea."

Illumi definitely did not get the idea. He hummed as though he did.

"Anyway," Tadashi said, and drank deeply from his vodka.

"Anyway."

" _Anyway_." At last, he turned away again, walking slow and speaking over his shoulder to Illumi, "I'm assuming you've never been on holiday to the beach before, considering what you're wearing. If you need something to swim in just – I don't know." He waved his hand around, in search of the words. "You can just borrow something of mine. I don't know if they'll fit. You're a lot taller than I am, and skinnier, I think. But whatever – just – yeah. Whatever."

It seemed like there was more still to be said. A few times, Tadashi looked back as though to speak, only to shake his head in an unspoken _nevermind_. The vodka vanished quickly from its glass; Tadashi went to change into his swimming shorts; Illumi was left to sit awkwardly on the couch in wait.

Tadashi was right. He didn't have anything at all to wear to the beach; really, Illumi could hardly remember the few times he had ever gone swimming.

Not that it bothered him all that much.

At least, not until Chiara came flouncing out from the passage in a sun-bright yellow bikini with frills around her chest like the petals of a daffodil. White skin – the most pristine colour Illumi had ever seen. Lily petals. Cream. Blotched in places – along her ribs, her hipbones – with scars and bruises like shocking blue ink stains: just another day in the life of somebody like them. Illumi stared at her, jolted by a sheer sense of… something. Such glaring traces of skin, all the little indentations and bone-points Illumi hadn't yet ventured to imagine, set his stomach fizzling. No. Even more than that. It made something very deep inside of him squirm in not-so-bad ways.

She came towards him, unembarrassed and apparently unaware of the hot colour that rose into Illumi's face. Why did he cringe like this? What was it about that slight, muscled stomach and those bare arms that made him suddenly want to die?

"You're not dressed!" Chiara cried with gentle impatience. "We're supposed to be leaving now."

Illumi only blinked at her.

She smiled. Touched his hand as it dangled at his side. "You can borrow one of Dashi's shorts, if you need to."

"Okay."

"Come~" she pulled him by the hand, turning her back to him – those shoulder blades! The carved arch of her spine! "He might have a bit of a sulk, but it's only because he's jealous that you're skinnier than he is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the beach chapter that nobody asked for but that everybody needs. XD


	16. Chapter 16

A slate stairway with precariously narrow steps trailed down the cliff face, obscured by coastal shrubs and stone as it zig-zagged towards a private beach. A sliver of sugar-fine, sugar-white sand stretched outwards from the ocean; placid waves curled at its edge in tufts of cloudy foam. It was quiet here, as far removed from the rest of the world as Kukuroo Mountain and as close to a fairytale as Illumi could bring himself to imagine.

Chiara ghosted across the beach – kicking up flurries of sand and flashing her pale soles, luminescent in the bright afternoon. She waded knee-deep into the water, gasped and stiffened at the shock of its coolness. From the shoreline, Illumi watched her, seized by the willowy curve of her back and the bowed comeliness of her limbs. Something unfamiliar writhed in his gut. It weighed him down, made him certain he would drown if he were to follow her into the waves. The feeling only swelled and seethed into ever greater life when Chiara turned to look at him over her shoulder – delicate twist of her muscles, water flicking restlessly against her skin. There was a strange look on her face, lost and lovely, a little sad as she smiled.

She reached out her hand, fingers spread wide and beckoning. "Are you coming, Illumi?" It was almost impossible to hear her over the water's hissing tumble – but he saw it in her face, in the small motions of her mouth. She wanted him to go with her. He hated the water. But he wanted her. And so he stepped in, ankles first, then shins then knees, until he could take her wet, sticky hand.

* * *

Datari and Tadashi basked like a pair of skinny lizards, spread flat on their towels at the top of the beach. Datari wore heart-shaped sunglasses and read a magazine for teenaged girls; Tadashi had his arms folded over his face. They didn't go near the water. They didn't move much from their towels at all, except to grasp at sunscreen and smear it across each other's backs and shoulders.

Maids came and went, carrying cocktail glasses with pineapple slices, iced waters, triangles of watermelon, reminding the twins and Chiara of the time.

There was a hot breeze that billowed by every now and then, blowing sand like shards of glass against Illumi's legs and fluttering uncomfortably up the swimming shorts he had borrowed from Tadashi. The sun crawled slowly down the horizon, melting its way through various shades of white-gold. Illumi's hair stuck to his temples and nape. He kept his towel firmly over his shoulders, bothered by the creeping feel of the sun on his naked back.

And then there was Chiara – darting from sand to water, torn between the waves and the sand castle she and Illumi had started. She spoke distractedly, smiled only faintly, and though Illumi knew she probably didn't want to talk about what had happened, he wished she would. He didn't know how to bring it up. He brooded over it, adding wet clumps of sand to their castle and fashioning them into only slightly more structured clumps of sand; and the longer he stewed over it, the more his tongue seemed to turn to mud itself.

Already, it was difficult to speak.

A hard lump congealed in his throat.

Why did he feel like this, all of a sudden? What was _this_?

Water in Chiara's collar bones, down her arms and chest, glimmered dewily. Illumi couldn't bring himself to stop looking at it – worse, he couldn't banish the urge to press his tongue to every drop. To taste the salty mix of seawater and sweat. Her belly button. The backs of her knees. Innocuous places, once hidden by stockings and sleeves and gloves and ribbons, now suddenly seemed striking in ways Illumi didn't have words to understand.

He wanted to scrape his fingertips over all the newly exposed bits of her skin.

He wanted to bite and squeeze and stroke her.

He wanted to… What?

What was it – _this_ – that he wanted?

Hands burrowing through the sand, Chiara dug a mote around their castle. She shuffled backwards on her knees, face hard and focused, strands of wispy purple hair falling across her forehead like lily roots. She stopped occasionally to throw the excess sand aside, unaware of or unbothered by the way Illumi stared. He held a white shell in his hand. They would use it for something special – an insignia above the castle gate or a fine treasure in the highest tower.

"Do you think the mote is deep enough?" Chiara asked, not quite looking at Illumi.

"It should be deeper."

"Mmm. Much deeper. You're right." Wiping her hands together, she flashed a smile. Or, no – not a smile, as such, peaking and falling in all the wrong places. "Help me?" she said gently. "You can dig a bit. I want to look for more shells. Or seaweed. Or maybe–"

"I want to come with you."

"I'm just going over there." She pointed to a scattering of rocks some way away. "It's not like it's a walk or anything."

For no real reason, Illumi insisted, "I want to come _with you_."

"But I'll be right back."

"That's what you said in Yorknew."

A pause. The false, insipid smile disappeared as though having been slapped from Chiara's face. Grey eyes swirling ambiguously, cheeks taking on a watery hue, she blinked at Illumi in stiff silence. Her sandy hands dangled about herself uncertainly before dropping to her knees. At last, she asked, "Are you angry with me?"

Her voice's thinness surprised Illumi. "Angry?" he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "Why would I be?"

Chiara looked down. "Because I failed."

"The job got done."

"But–"

"If I could have it my way…" Illumi began, though he wasn't entirely sure how to continue. Gawkily, fingers feeling too thick and unwieldy, he flattened his palm over her knuckles – and in doing so, his fingertips grazed the slightest sliver of her thigh. He swallowed against the grip around his throat, urged down the flare of feeling in his stomach. "If I could have it my way," he said again, "I would protect you always. I am happy – or no, I am relieved I was there to help you. Not angry." He thought for a moment. "Or maybe I am. But not with you." And then, "Never with you."

"With who then?"

"Your mothers, I think." At this, Chiara looked confused, and so Illumi pressed onwards, "Your siblings too. They let you go. You weren't ready and they knew it, but they let you go."

"I was ready. I just – I froze up. It just wasn't how I was expecting it to go. I thought – _I thought_ –"

"You weren't ready," Illumi said flatly. "But your mothers and Datari and Tadashi didn't care."

No response. Only the murmuring ocean in the background, the twins' chatter receding with the wind. Tentatively, Chiara's hand turned beneath Illumi's so that their fingers could lace together, like seaweed curling about itself in the current. She looked like she wanted to deny it, but the resolve in her gaze was quickly dissipating. When she did speak, it was unconvincing, "They care about me. They have to."

"You're upset." Illumi's thumb stroked the side of her hand. It was an automatic motion – instinctual, maybe – but it felt right. "There's no need for you to be upset though. _I_ care about you. That should be enough, don't you think? Or is it still the job that's bothering you? If it's that, there's no point in dwelling on it. It's over now… It's done and you got your money, the client was happy."

She still had more to say. She seemed to chew on the words, flashes of thought brightening and receding in her eyes' expression.

Finally, she shook her head and smiled small, for real this time. "I shouldn't say this..."

"Say what?"

"I like when you tell me you care about me."

"Why shouldn't you say that?"

"Because I just shouldn't. I shouldn't like you so much when you're marrying Datari."

She never spoke about it so bluntly. Somehow, over the years, the matter of the arranged marriage had become a silent point between them, an assumed understanding that to mention it would violate the sanctity of the few hours they got to be together. There was more to it though. Even these years later, Illumi had never brought up what Datari had said about them having an _open relationship_. He still didn't understand the idea, had never broached the concept of it with anyone who might have known. He didn't know what an _open relationship_ meant for him and Chiara.

What he did have some inkling of was the hazardous nature of his feelings – how they would only continue to grow, festering like an infection and blossoming in brilliant, unignorable luster. Inspiring stranger and ever more giddifying sensations throughout the entirety of his body. When he held Chiara's hand, he grew numb to everything but the milky texture of her palm. When she looked at him, smiled at him, the effect of it echoed from his skull into his chest into his lungs in a shock of pins and needles. He liked it when she referred to him as her friend, even though he could never bring himself to say it back (they were so much less and so much more than that). He liked that she was a little peculiar – or so he'd heard Mother say – and that she liked him too.

Illumi knew Father would tell him not to entertain it, these feelings. But he'd already been doing so for years. He'd met Chiara a little too soon, when he was still a little too young to be able to stop himself – now what was he to do?

"I don't want to marry Datari," he said.

At which, Chiara looked astonished. "Why would you say that?"

He knew the answer, and he wanted to tell her. But no words came for him to say it. Already, by voicing such defiance, he had stretched his vocabulary to its limits. And so they both sat there, in the sand and sun, gawking at each other like they were two frogs on the wrong lily pad. Staring and staring, just staring, their pause filled with a foreign anticipation. Something was about to happen – that was the only way Illumi could think to describe it. Either one of them had to say something to begin a new rhythm, to shift their weight ever so slightly to break the tight expectancy that held them there.

Only, it seemed impossible to move now. Their faces, at some unknown point, had come close enough for Illumi to consider with clear attention the pale length of Chiara's lashes, the splatter of freckles down her nose, the catlike sweep of her mouth. Her mouth: small. Her mouth: squashy and soft. Her mouth, inviting and suddenly, inexplicably, making Illumi blush.

Mindlessly, he touched his index finger to her top lip. (He was shaking – he'd forgotten what it was like.) In turn, Chiara did the same. It was light enough to almost not be a touch – _almost_ – as she ghosted her own fingertip over Illumi's mouth. He was in half a mind to part his lips, to take her finger between his teeth. He didn't but he wondered, if he did, Chiara would pull away or do the same – and how would it feel? Was that something people did?

Datari's shrill voice calling out over the ocean's din broke them apart, shattered the spell. It was time to go back for dinner.

* * *

They all went to bed early that night, retiring to air-conditioned bedrooms and cool white sheets like tissue paper. Likewise, they rose early the next morning, when the sun was but a rosy sliver fading into the black horizon.

The previous day's few hours of sunlight had left Illumi groggy with a looming headache – he took a cold shower to wake himself, wondered while dressing if he would be able to get away with not wearing a shirt. In spite of himself, he opted to put one on. Then, window open in his bedroom with the curtain wafting languidly, he contacted Father.

'Are you having a nice time so far, Illumi?'

"Yes, Father."

'Behaving?'

"Yes, Father."

'Good. You'll have to be in good form when you come home. I have some work for you to do with Killua.'

"Alright."

'Alright. Enjoy the beach.'

They ended the call. And with that, Illumi padded through to the living area, where Chiara and the twins picked at slices of watermelon and drank cups of coffee for breakfast – Tadashi, on the floor, hadn't bothered to wear a shirt, baring the pink hue that coloured his ladylike shoulders and the jagged scars down his sides, blotchy and strawberry-coloured; Datari, spread slovenly across the couch with her feet up on the armrest, was in a dress much too small to _actually_ be considered a dress. Her limbs were melty, scarred all over too, and inspired in Illumi a similar – though not the same – sort of sick feeling he'd gotten when staring at Chiara the day before.

"Good morning, Zoldyck~" Datari said, and waved her toes at him in greeting. She grinned when he pulled a face at her. "You're not dressed for the beach."

"We're going to the beach again?"

"What do you mean, _again_? What did you think we were going to do, go ice-skating?"

"Don't be sarcastic, Tari," Tadashi said. "He probably won't get it."

Chiara was on one of the bar stools, knees brought up to her chest and feet curled impishly over the edge of the seat. She'd left an extra cup of coffee next to hers, with a little jug of milk and sugar at its side. Illumi, assuming quite fairly that the cup was for him, didn't drink coffee. Nonetheless, he sat with Chiara and sipped blandly while she paged through Datari's magazine. No milk nor sugar. Illumi said nothing at all of the gross, dirt-like taste.

Maids had packed a picnic basket of sandwiches and tinned iced tea. Before they left for the beach, Tadashi and Datari slipped in a bottle of something from the bar. Chiara rubbed sunscreen on Illumi's back – he hated the sticky texture and the smell, but didn't complain – and she giggled when he asked her if this was all they would be doing: going to the beach. "No, I don't think so," she said blithely. "But it's the main thing. Is there something else you'd want to do more?"

He couldn't think of anything specific, though he'd be satisfied with something that didn't require him to take his clothes off or to smear himself with sunscreen.

At the beach, their sandcastle had been quashed by the tide, a sad mound of wet sand and a single white seashell. Illumi was loathed to admit that he was a little disappointed by it. Though he could still make out the silhouette of their efforts – here was where the guard towers once stood, and here was a feeble outline of the once-was mote – he was struck by a funny sense of loss. How flimsily they'd made their castle! However, the feeling dissipated when Chiara shrugged her sun-pink shoulders and said, "I think we should dig holes today. Like the one in your garden. Let's see who can make the deepest!"

So they dug holes. All morning. Occasionally, the twins would come by with their drinks in hand (spiked with whatever they'd taken from the bar) and would look down with incredulous expressions at Illumi and Chiara fervently shoveling sand. Occasionally, too, Chiara would peer out from her hole and dare Illumi to race her to the water and back. He never let her win.

More sunscreen.

The relief of cool, wet sand.

They drank their iced tea, and Illumi was irritated to find that his tasted weird because Datari had poured tequila in it. _Iced tea margaritas, Zoldyck! We're pre-gaming for tonight._ Pre-gaming. Another unknown to Illumi. He didn't ask and didn't think he particularly wanted to know. Alongside him, Chiara finished her 'margarita' while pulling very unpleasant faces.

They stopped digging their holes deeper and instead tried to connect them. The tunnel kept collapsing in sandy defiance, and Chiara would huff determinedly each time it did so.

They swam some more.

Put on more sunscreen.

Chiara pointed out shells.

Illumi squinted against fierce sunlight.

Still more sunscreen – the only reprieve being the slow, firm feel of Chiara's hands travelling up and down his back and shoulders, and the way she declared a merry _all done!_ whenever she finished with him. Once or twice, he put sunscreen on her too, gut burning furiously with not-all-unpleasant flutters as he felt the bird-light bumps and crevices of her frame. Skin on skin. Wet and soft, sticky with salt. Her shoulders were hot, their sunny colour rising high into the back of her neck like a blush.

Only late into the afternoon did they at last depart, scaling the steep cliff face back to the house. Trailing slightly behind the twins, Chiara gripped Illumi's hand as they walked, smiled up at him with that loaded, probing look in her eyes. She made no move to pull away when the twins turned to say something to them about a bar and a salsa and something, something, something.

Back at the house, Datari and Chiara vanished into their bedroom with a decided shut of the door. There'd been talk of halter necks and wedges, crop tops and v-necks. Illumi only had a vague idea what any of it meant, and so he was not taken wholly by surprise when Tadashi came up behind him in the passageway and plucked at his shirt sleeves.

"What are you wearing tonight?" Tadashi asked, as though it were the simplest question in the world.

"Why? Are we going to the beach again?"

This elicited raised eyebrows. "Weren't you listening?"

"To what?"

"We're going to a salsa bar in the town."

"Oh. I see." It seemed silly. "But can't you just send a maid to buy a dip from one of the grocery stores?"

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

"A _dip_?"

"You know – a salsa," Illumi explained, and made a weird gesture to imitate dipping a chip. "It's a dip."

"Oh my god." Tadashi pinched the bridge of his nose, looking genuinely disgusted and aghast. "Oh my _god_. A _salsa_. It's a dance. We're going _dancing_."

Illumi blinked. "Oh."

With a sigh, Tadashi shook his head. "You need to dress nice. It's not a fancy place or anything, but it's an occasion. Chiara said a while ago the she wanted to go... to celebrate."

"Chiara didn't tell me we were going dancing."

"So? I'm telling you now."

"Alright. I suppose I'll just wear what I wore yesterday."

"You mean those god awful black pants? And that fucking turtle neck thing?" Tadashi threw his hands in the air with exasperated flair. Then he took Illumi by the sleeve again and led him to his bedroom. "No, no. That won't do. You'll embarrass all of us. I swear, are you even trying? Come. You'll just have to borrow something of mine again, you fucking wreck. You exhaust me. I'm thinking something green – you'd look okay in green. Do you have any objection to puffed sleeves? It's all I have, so fuck you if you do have objections."

Illumi couldn't get a word in edgewise.

Tadashi marched them both through his bedroom doorway. He looked over his shoulder, pulled a pained face. "I'm only doing this for Chiara, you understand?" And then, breathlessly, "You… I know what you did. I still don't like you. But she, Chiara, told Datari and me what happened. So – _so_ – thank you. For looking after her." He was speaking so fast and with such fluster, Illumi imagined he must have been holding this until his ribcage had felt about ready to burst. "So, yes." He let go of Illumi's sleeve, went over to his cupboards and opened the doors distractedly. "Just – thanks."

Then he started pulling out garish shirts and pants and threw them at Illumi. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Illumi is a light-weight and the twins are sus, as usual. Also, fluff!

or such a small coastal town, the bar was an unexpected press of young bodies and clammy, clouded air. Quick music with sultry chords, girls with tropical flowers in their hair. From his seat, Illumi watched drinks go by, fidgeting uncomfortably with the outfit Tadashi had forced on him and staring, half-mesmerized, into the fleshy crush of the dance floor. Tanned legs, loose hair, thrown about rhythmically and chaotically in patterns Illumi just couldn't decipher – dancing, he reminded himself.

Somewhere in that crowd, Chiara was _dancing_ with her brother. Until then, she'd sat with Illumi for a long time – yellow skirt in flounces about her thighs, stopping short at her freckled knees where they were crossed close to his – sipping coyly from the cocktail the twins had ordered on her behalf. Her nose had crinkled. Her lips had skewed at the corners. And Illumi, staring hard at her face as it glowed luminous and sun-flushed in the mix of evening's black-blues and the bar's dim golds, had swallowed down repeatedly on the urge to touch his fingertip to her pouty bottom lip once again. He couldn't, he knew – the moment on the beach, whatever it had been, had passed him by. Still, the temptation remained with a distinctness Illumi hadn't experienced since he was a child. Like wanting to steal the chocolates Mother kept in her bedside drawer. Like wanting to run away when Father or Mother or Grandfather called him to come.

He touched her at every chance he got, likely obvious and not particularly caring. He pressed his knees against hers, the silky feel of Tadashi's loose, puffy pants being the only thing separating skin from warm skin. He grazed her elbow, forearm, wrist with his own. He leaned in a little closer than was necessary, mouth close enough to her ear for him to imagine the strange and fine undulations of it onto his lips, pretending the music was too loud and that this was the only possible way for them to speak.

They held hands, too. The whole time, by now bold and unabashed, unconcerned by whether or not the twins saw. It unsettled Illumi a little bit, the simultaneous newness and familiarity of her hand – so inoffensive, so safe and childlike in the same way Killua's was; and yet, it made goosebumps rise up and down Illumi's legs to think too much about it. Not like a sister. Not a friend. Something else entirely, making Illumi's stomach (and other, less identifiable parts) burn and flutter and squirm and feel all the things at once. He'd held her hand in Yorknew. He'd held her hand when hers had been quivering and his had been covered in her target's blood. Now, seemingly a world away, he held her hand through something of a spell-bound stupor, dazed by a day of beachy sunshine and dizzied by a lively bustle of dancing and drinking and the sort of life most teenagers lived.

It was like being ripped in two when Tadashi – eyes resplendent with too much tequila, face dewy with a pale wash of excitement and sweat – came to steal her away.

"Just a few dances, Chi-Chi! With your big bro! Don't be shy~"

"But there's so many people–"

And she was gone. And Illumi was alone, circling his finger against the rim of his second glass of the night. He drank slowly, not entirely reluctantly, undecided on the taste of whatever it was the twins had ordered (twice) for him (not the same thing as Chiara's – hers had seemed more fruit juice than alcohol). As much as he tried to catch sight of her, there were only traces to be found amongst the crowd. A flash of purple hair to inspire a pang of vile jealousy. A giggle so undeniably hers echoing ghostly above the noise, it was almost painful and terribly infuriating.

Why couldn't he bring himself to move from that chair? Why did the thought of being sucked into that crowd, a purposeless waif of a boy (without a mission, without a target), make Illumi want to crawl in on himself?

It could have been the alcohol. Illumi put it down to that. He took another sip and considered the bubbling lethargy that settled over his skull, the faint numbness that prickled through his limbs. He was immune to most known poisons, could remember the nausea and the unsteadiness and the agony that had coursed through him as part of his training. But somehow, his parents had neglected to give him alcohol – he'd had glasses of champagne with the Flaminias, finishing half glasses and meager sips before pushing away the drink under Mother's careful gaze. Grandfather gave him beer every now and then, too. But not anything like this.

He drank again, and almost didn't notice Datari chassé into the seat next to him. Suddenly close. The smell of sweat and that same citrusy perfume she'd always worn. Legs crossed, muscled as a race horse and stretching long from her tight, dark dress. She stared at Illumi through bruising clouds of makeup and smiled, the exact same shade of purple lipstick as her mother.

"You look like a little lost boy, Zoldyck," she said sweetly. "Waiting for a dashing young man to ask you to dance?"

Illumi blinked at her, confused by the blur that settled around her face. "Why would a man ask me to dance?"

"Oh, _you know_ ~" She tipped her head to the side and, with strange affection, brushed a strand of hair behind Illumi's ear. "With such pretty hair and all. Tadashi gets asked by men to dance and stuff all the time – and you're wearing his clothes, after all. They look good on you, by the way. Who would have thought you were hiding such a tiny waist underneath all those ugly tracksuit tops." Then another flash of that cat-like, not-quite-pretty smile. "Chiara thinks you look cute too. She commented on your butt."

"What?"

"Nothing." She swiped the remnants of Chiara's drink and threw it back without due hesitation. A satisfied sigh. A shrug of her hair over her pink, naked shoulder. "Are you going to dance?"

Still confused, Illumi shook his head. "Unlikely."

"Don't know how?"

"No." He was surprised by how freely he admitted it. "I don't know how."

"I can show you, if you'd like. It's very easy. You probably wouldn't make a very good dancer, just saying, since you're so stiff and kind of constipated looking. _But_ you'll be able to pick up the basic step, I think – I'm a very good teacher, and you're at least mostly clever." In a smooth, shocking swipe, Illumi's hands were clasped between Datari's and she was pulling him into that swirling, giddy crowd of grinning faces and swishing limbs and glittering cocktail dresses. "Don't look so stunned, Illumi-kun!" she cooed over the music. "It's _fun_! Chiara's even dancing! You want to dance with her, don't you? Come on, I'll show you and then we'll go find her!"

Hand to her waist, the shape of it jutted and angular. Illumi absorbed the motions still without comprehending the pattern of salsa-ing, more concerned with the oddity of it all. Dancing with Datari. Touching Datari in ways he didn't really want to be touching her. Was he disgusted by it? The very adult way she moved herself underneath his palms, the shape of her being so close to him… No, he didn't think so. At that point, he couldn't fully figure out what it was he was _supposed_ to be feeling, but he had a suspicion he at least partly enjoyed it – looking at her, that is, and imagining all her Flaminia-esque features into a passable conjuration of Chiara.

He couldn't say he really liked the dancing though.

"See?" Datari chuckled, tilting forward so that she was speaking into Illumi's ear. Too close. Somehow too heavy to push away. They were still moving back and forth. "You're getting it. Easy, right? Even for a Zoldyck." There was a funny lilt to her voice as they continued dancing. "You know," she said, more quietly, breath hot against Illumi's ear, "and I shouldn't be telling you this, but I'm a little drunk and you looked after my baby sister so valiantly, so it's okay. But you know, our mothers were in love when they were growing up. Mommy and Missus Kikyo. Did you know that?"

Illumi said nothing for a while, taken aback by the suddenness and the slight slur of the statement. It was hard to concentrate on dancing and talking, on staying steady when Datari seemed to press himself ever more against him, and amongst it all, Illumi somehow couldn't properly process the implications or the absurdity of Datari's pronouncement. He said eventually, "That wouldn't make sense."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't."

"Because they're both women?"

"No. That's irrelevant. It's because – my father–"

He could feel Datari grin into his skin. "Yeah, there's him," she said. "An arranged marriage, too. They haven't told you?"

"They're not like us." There it was – that 'us', the saying of which made Illumi sick with himself. "They love each other. My mother married my father."

"Mmm. Maybe so. But after her and Mommy started making a name for themselves as assassins – they worked together for a while, surely they must have told you at least that? – anyway, after they started making a name for themselves, the Zoldyck family swooped in and grabbed her up like it was nobody's business." Datari started playing with Illumi's hair again. He wanted to stop her but couldn't quite figure out how he was supposed to do that. "I think your mom mainly wanted kids, you know. Mommy didn't want kids all that much until she met Mamma. And because your daddy looks so strong and virile, maybe because he's got money too, Missus Kikyo jumped at the opportunity."

Illumi could think of nothing else to say. "They love each other."

"I never said they didn't."

"You can't love two people."

"You absolutely can."

"No," Illumi declared, disturbed. "No, you cannot."

"Oh! Silly, Zoldyck!" Datari squealed, and threw her arms around his shoulders. "It's sweet that you should think so. Very romantic. Recently, it surprises me how cute you can be! I've never liked clueless boys. But you say such funny things sometimes! Oh, you know, I think I've had too much to drink – come to the bar with me?"

It was then that Datari was finally pried away from him, not by her own volition as by the sudden slice of another body between them. Poisonous murmurings of _What the fuck, Datari?_ followed by glimpses of Tadashi's vivid, furious eyes met Illumi like a violent smack to the face, and he watched a little bemusedly as Datari was dragged away, clasping defiantly at Tadashi's harsh hand around her arm. Had he not been dancing with Chiara? Yes – that's right. He had been. And just as he'd appeared out of nowhere, so too did Chiara stand staring at Illumi like a lone little daffodil amongst the hectic buzz of the place.

It would have been a good time to have asked her to dance. But Illumi only stared back, the two of them awkwardly still in the middle of the dancefloor. Through the dull fog of two cocktails, her features seemed to fall into an indiscernible, beautiful smudge of dark, dark eyes and light, light skin, and looking at her, Illumi didn't think it could possibly be true what Datari had said – if someone were to fall in love with Chiara, it would be insane to even consider loving someone else at the same time.

After what seemed an age, Chiara swept past Illumi towards the door. He followed dazedly.

"I didn't know you wanted to dance," she said when they were outside.

There was a short stretch of road before them, and then the beach. It was swathed in impermeable black, only the hissing echoes of the sea rising out from the darkness in beckoning. A car was supposed to come from the estate to fetch them in a little while – what time was it? – and Tadashi and Datari were nowhere in sight.

"I didn't," Illumi said. "Datari told me to learn the steps."

"Yup. It looked like you were doing lots of learning."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I thought you didn't like Datari."

"What does that have to do with–?"

Chiara looked at him sharply, face shadowed hazy and blue by streetlights. "Whatever," she said. "It's not like _I_ wanted to dance with you or anything."

This struck Illumi. "I didn't think you would."

"Well, I didn't."

"Because last time I asked you to dance for me, you got upset."

Looking away from him, crossing her arms firmly across her chest, Chiara walked sullenly across the road and towards the beach. "That was different," she mumbled, low as the receding sounds of the bar behind them. "This was supposed to just be for fun."

"So you did want to dance with me then?"

She sniffed, made a sound like a whimper. "You're stupid."

"I'm sorry."

They stopped. Chiara raised her face back to Illumi in surprise.

"Are you jealous that I was dancing with Datari?" he asked. And when Chiara seemed unable or unwilling to reply, he continued, "You shouldn't be jealous, if you are. Your sister had a lot to drink."

"And you didn't?"

"I only had the two whatchamacallits that they bought me." He cocked his head from side-to-side in deliberation. "I feel kind of funny. But it's not that bad. And you should probably know, I only danced with Datari to learn the steps so that I could dance with you afterwards. I don't like dancing though. It's stupid."

This seemed to lift a weight from Chiara's tone. The peculiar, erratic prickle of her aura smoothed to something less peculiar, less erratic. "If I'm honest, I don't really like dancing either," she said. "But Tadashi and Datari come to this bar all the time whenever we come here – they wanted to celebrate, you know… my first job and all that…" She faded out slightly, the conversation closing off there. "Let's go sit by the water. I think Datari and Tadashi are going to be gone for a little bit."

By the sand, they took their shoes off. Illumi carried both his and hers, mainly to keep his hands full so that he could be without the means to reach for hers, much as he wanted to. He was astounded anew by the cool prickle of the sand on his feet, by the fresh rush of salty mist from the ocean. Nighttime made everything better, made everything easier, banishing the sheer awareness of daytime hours into obscurity. Illumi didn't particularly consider himself either a day or night-person; however, he liked the way darkness made things simple. The way the ocean was no longer something so vast as the ocean, the sand no longer the sand, but only a bouquet of sensation belonging to Illumi alone.

Chiara next to him, Chiara close to him, was no longer such a confused, unfamiliar feeling – on the contrary, nothing had seemed so clear to Illumi. They stopped some way from the water's edge and circled unsteadily to sit; shoes discarded to the side, her fingers searching out his reluctantly through the sand. For just a moment, Illumi considered if maybe there was a chance for more. He didn't know what exactly. Just more. More of her jealousy, and her straightforwardness, and her wanting him (to be with him, near him, to touch him). And in that, less of the tip-toeing they'd both been doing around the same thing without ever realising it.

Or maybe that was just two cocktails talking.

"So," Illumi began, wrapping his arms around his knees.

"So."

"You don't like dancing?"

He felt her shrug. "No. I'm not any good at it. Not like Datari or even Tadashi. Do you know! Dashi once had his target, high up in some international church and all that, say that he, Tadashi that is, was a demon sent to tempt him after having watched him dance. I guess that was the angle he was supposed to be playing at, but still." Chiara dropped her voice. "I can't dance like that."

"I really like watching you."

"Don't take this the wrong way – but I saw you dancing with Datari." There was a smile in the way she spoke. "It doesn't mean much when you say you like the way I dance."

Illumi shrugged. "Regardless."

A pause, filled only by the roll of waves onto sand. And then, "Do you want to play a game or something, Lumi?"

"Like what?"

"Truth or Dare. We played it the last few times we saw each other. Last time with Tadashi and Datari, and Milluki – you know, when we dared him to belly dance and he got upset."

Illumi smiled small. "I remember."

"Mmm. So ~ truth or dare?"

"Truth."

Chiara sighed affectionately. "You always pick truth." She shuffled closer, hummed thoughtfully. The length of her arm lined itself against Illumi's; overly aware through his sleepy daze, he felt her lean into him, previous unhappiness seemingly forgotten. "Who do you like more," she began, "Killua or me?"

The smile dropped on Illumi's face. "Dare."

"You can't change."

"That's not a fair question."

"Why not?"

"Just not. Ask a different question."

"Fine." Chiara tilted her head onto his shoulder. "What's your favourite thing about Killua?"

They asked a few questions like this, testily selecting Truth after Truth until at last Chiara was brave enough to venture a dare. Illumi told her to run with him into the water, up to her hips – and unwaveringly, they did so, she gripping his hand and he clutching hers with equal fervor; waves cold and beating against them, drowning out the sound of her shrieks and giggles. They left the water again with Tadashi's clothing ruined by salt and her skirt clinging to the thin, willowy shape of her thighs. Hair wet at the ends, sticky along the back of Illumi's neck and stretching like a gossamer veil over her shoulder. Still breathless with the chill, she didn't notice when Illumi brushed her hair away and left his hand lingering over her shoulder blade.

Another dare. Another truth, for which Illumi built up the lucidity to ask, "Do you know how our mothers know each other?"

"Yes," Chiara answered, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "They grew up together in Meteor City, right? Isn't this a bit of a dumb question to ask?"

"No – maybe I should put it this way, do you know how _well_ our mothers knew each other?"

She paused meaningfully. Awash with the frail white of stars and moonlight, Illumi could see her eyes glimmer, watchful. "I'm not supposed to say anything… But Mommy said she and Missus Kikyo used to, umm, I don't know. You know. I mean, they weren't girlfriends or anything, I don't think, but they were–"

"Why aren't you supposed to say anything?"

Chiara made a sweet, uncertain sound. "Mommy was drinking when she told us," she said. "She doesn't want it to cause issues."

"Then why would she tell you in the first place?"

"Because it matters."

"I see. In that case, can I ask you another question that also matters?" He didn't give her a chance to respond. "Do you think someone can love two people at the same time?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I don't really know too much about love."

"I see."

Illumi picked dare next, and Chiara dared him to buy himself more clothes like Tadashi's: puffed sleeves and silky pants, embroidered and bright and flamboyant. They debated whether long term dares like that were allowed before Illumi agreed – he'd been needing something new to wear anyway. Then Chiara picked truth, and by this time in the evening – both of them huddled close together so that her head was on his shoulder and his head was on hers, stars glinting on the black svelte sea as the town behind them murmured on into the night – Illumi had had ample time to consider what he wanted to ask next.

He swallowed, unsure how to put it any way but bluntly. "Have you ever kissed a boy?"

She lifted her head and stared at him. Illumi could imagine her blush: delicate rose over opal whiteness, powdered and blotchy across pale freckles and shell-smooth cheeks.

"I guess maybe that's a silly question," he said after a while. He cocked his head at her, smiled with lips numb from the cold and the remaining effects of the alcohol. "You haven't met any boys besides me and my brothers, right? And you surely haven't kissed any of _them_." He laughed flatly, sounding stupid even to his own ears. "But, then again, you have actually kissed me."

Chiara sounded astounded. "I haven't."

"On the cheek."

"Oh. Then… I guess so." She looked firmly to the sea. "But that didn't mean anything. It was just – just friendly."

"You picked truth," Illumi probed, "but you're lying."

"No, I'm not."

"Do you want to kiss me properly?"

Silence. "No."

"You're lying."

She gasped, swinging herself away from him as though the suggestion were preposterous. "How do _you_ know, Illumi?" she demanded, sounding less incensed than she did embarrassed. "Have _you_ ever kissed a girl?"

"No. I haven't yet," Illumi said frankly, smile widening. His head was spinning. His fingers were numb enough that he had to squeeze Chiara's to know they were still there. "But anyway, it's my turn now. Ask me truth or dare."

"Illumi."

"I pick dare. Now," he leaned towards her across the sand, "dare me to kiss you."

" _Illumi_!"

"Unless you don't want to."

"That – it's not _that_ –"

"I want to kiss you, you know."

"Illumi, stop. You're embarrassing me."

"Why?"

"Because…" Her voice was quiet with panic. " _Because_ …"

Illumi had seen Mother and Father kiss before – short and formal little _mwah_ s, with pin-pricked lips and barely closed eyes. There was also the sparse collection of movie kisses he had witnessed, with desperately slung arms and soaking mouths, skin on skin and the slide of wet, slippery muscle. Neither type of kiss was quite the way he wanted to kiss Chiara though; and the inexperience of it, the sweet and agonising novelty of the situation, made Illumi's insides turn in on themselves.

He put his hand on her cheek – it felt like the right way to do things. Beyond that, nothing came instinctually. Really, everything felt horrendously messy even in such chaste simplicity: Illumi's heart was in his gut then in his head then in his lungs. Thrashing against his ribcage and skull with such drumming force he felt about sure his bones were going to break.

He kissed her.

Soft. Tasting vaguely of salt.

Just lips on lips, and shaking fingers through the sand, lingering a moment too long or too short because neither of them were quite sure whether to kiss deeper or to pull away. Illumi could hardly help but to be excruciatingly aware of every inch of his stiff, hazy body – the tip of his nose, balanced awkwardly close to Chiara's cheek; the curious prod of his tongue against the back of his teeth. He felt her fingertips touch at his wrist and then retreat, and felt the foreign wash of her breath on his mouth when at last she broke away. Shyly, reluctantly, keeping her forehead close to his and meeting his eye in questioning, as though awaiting permission to speak.

Instead, she kissed him again. Once. Twice. Little pecks as fleeting as the pop of bubblegum, her lips so light they hardly seemed to touch his at all. He shifted his weight onto his knees, sand digging into the wet, thin material of Tadashi's pants, and cocooned both her cheeks in his hands. Holding her there. Holding the kiss as though to drink it in. And in a slurred, unexpected moment of daring, he slipped his tongue against her cherry-plump bottom lip, thrilled by the soft gasp it elicited as she opened her mouth and touched his tongue with her own.

Saliva. Slow, testing tastes of her. That, and then it was over, the two of them gawking at each other through the darkness, bemused and maybe a little terrified – confronted with the sense of having transgressed some critical boundary. Chiara had called herself his friend before. Could she still call herself that? Or had they just made themselves strangers once again in some inexplicable way?

To Illumi's surprise, she started crying. Or giggling. Or both. She threw her arms around his shoulders and laughed or sobbed into his neck, her heart beating flightily and much too fast against his. "I like you, Lumi," she said, and Illumi couldn't decide whether she was happy or utterly devastated by the confession. "I like you so, so much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams*


	18. Chapter 18

_Present Day_

" _You have a sister?"_

_Killua shrugged, chewing distractedly on a chocolate Pocky. "Well, sister-in-law." They'd just been talking about rainy days, and catching frogs. When he'd been younger, that had been one of Killua's favourite things to do – especially with Chiara, when she'd first started staying at the mansion. Chiara and Illumi both. "But she's been around so long, she's kind of more a sister."_

_It was clear from the pursed, thoughtful expression on Gon's face that he was struggling to wrap his head around the concept. "Sister-in-law…" he repeated. "Oh. So you're close then?"_

" _What? No!"_

" _But you said she's just like a sister!"_

" _Because she's been around so long!" Killua scoffed. "I can't respect her enough to be close to her."_

" _What do you mean?"_

" _She's so wrapped around my brother's finger, it's crazy." Raising his pinky for emphasis, Killua pulled a sour face. He sighed. "I guess I should maybe be grateful to her, a little bit – I bet if it wasn't for her, Illumi would be on my case even more." Which he knew was true. "But still! It's like she's been completely brainwashed into being his sweet little wife. It's disgusting. Do you know he doesn't even let her step foot outside the house without there being someone to keep an eye on her? And she's okay with it."_

_Gon frowned, face full of feeling. "That's sad." Then he perked up. "Maybe after we've made it past the two hundredth floors, we can go rescue her like we did for you!"_

" _Idiot! You're joking, right? My family may have let me just walk out of there – but do you know what they'll do to you if you even joke about taking Chiara away?"_

_A laugh, a playful shake of the head. "Relax, Killua. I'm kidding." There was that innocuous glimmer in Gon's eye. "Mostly. Nobody should live like that."_

" _Don't feel sorry for her. She chose to marry Illumi."_

* * *

While Chiara slept – hair like a purple dahlia over her pillow, lashes fluttering with every low and unsuspecting breath – Illumi gave the butlers their instructions.

No one was to speak to her.

No one was to even look at her.

For the next five days, she would be in complete isolation, save for being taken her meals.

Furthermore, he told the butlers, when it came to his wife they took commands from no one but him. Chiara didn't know what was good for herself, and Grandfather spoiled her, and Father doted over her to the point of being absent from day-to-day discipline. Loathed though he was to admit it, Illumi knew that he himself had been lax in recent months – she ate what she wanted (or, as had become clear, didn't eat at all), she wandered where she wanted, she said and thought and felt as she wanted. It wouldn't do. It was no good for a Zoldyck.

He went to check on her, marking her sleepy forehead with a possessive kiss. Then he locked the bedroom door behind himself as though banishing from consciousness some secret inner world of tangled bedsheets and low-burning bedside lights and mingling smells of him and her. Select butlers had keys of their own; Chiara wouldn't be able to pick her way through the lock.

And with a stiff sense of finality, Illumi left her there. It was only five days, hardly much of a punishment at all by his family's standards, but because the transgression had come from only the sweetest of intentions – _I just wanted to see you, Lumi_ ; _only wanted to be with you –_ and not some futile sense of rebellion, as was the case with Killua, Illumi was inclined to be forgiving. Nonetheless, gentle though he was being, he would see to it that she learned a lesson.

But first, he went to see Grandfather.

"Yes, I allowed her to go," Grandfather admitted with an insouciant shrug. His breakfast was laid out on the coffee table, before which he reclined in his dragon-backed divan sofa. "I saw no reason to say no if she had butlers with her. She was terribly eager, you know."

Illumi kept the irritation from his voice. He stood rigidly across from Grandfather, gaze unyielding and features trembling with the urge to show his displeasure. "I have specified multiple times that Chiara is not allowed to leave the mountain," he said. "She's not capable of looking after herself. And Canary and Amane are hardly suitable butlers to have sent along."

"Well, I disagree."

"She's my wife."

"She's my only granddaughter. It's inevitable that I'll be a little more obliging, isn't it?" Grandfather smirked. He lifted a piece of salmon to his lips, chewed infuriatingly slow, slow, slow. He swallowed, then spoke more seriously. "Anyway, I did tell her that she'd have to deal with the consequences herself, whatever they may be. How's she supposed to be of any use to this family if you keep her locked up like a songbird and she has no opportunity to learn basic decision-making? Really, Illumi, she's an adult woman and yet she can hardly brush her own hair."

This made Illumi's eyes narrow. "Her decisions are my decisions to make. I take care of her as is necessary and–"

"You underestimate her," Grandfather said. "And just like Killua, she's going to rebel against you at some point."

"No. I've taken precautions."

"You took precautions with your brother too, did you not?"

Illumi had nothing to say to this.

"Enough now with your temper tantrum, Illumi. You're ruining my breakfast." Waving his hand in dismissal, Grandfather looked away as though having forgotten about Illumi's presence entirely. "Go whine to your Mother, if you need someone to pander to you."

Spine stiff with irritation – Illumi hated discussing anything with Grandfather – he turned to leave. It vexed him even more that he knew Grandfather was right: he _should_ have gone to Mother first.

"Oh," Grandfather sounded like he was smirking still, "just by the way." Illumi met his eye once more, eager to leave and yet also eager to continue arguing about his wife's well-being. Grandfather chuckled, and raised an emphatic eyebrow. "You owe me three hundred and fifty thousand jenny for your wife's shopping spree," he said fondly. "She has rather expensive taste in clothing and cosmetics."

* * *

Gotoh and Tsubone were in charge of taking Chiara her meals and seeing to it that she ate. Four hours had passed since breakfast – nearing lunch now, the kitchen preparing a mix of vegetables and broiled chicken and no dessert – and only now was Gotoh coming to Illumi with feedback, tray in hand and face stolid. In the family's leisure room, he revealed to Illumi an entirely untouched bowl of porridge, entirely untouched berries, entirely untouched pair of boiled eggs. The only thing Chiara had bothered having was the little glass of fruit juice and her medicine.

Illumi glared at the tray of food as though it would answer for itself, beg mercy for its inadequacy, for its failure to appeal.

"Chiara-sama was… very upset, Illumi-sama," Gotoh said carefully. "She was trying to pick the lock when I brought her meal, and sulked when I wouldn't answer her questions. I prompted her to eat, of course, but she refused." Sounding somewhat embarrassed, Gotoh shook his head. "She threw the spoon at me. If I may say, I believe firmer measures will be required in order for Chiara-sama to properly comply."

"She threw the spoon at you?"

"Yes, Illumi-sama. Surprisingly hard."

Such a statement tore Illumi between a smile and a frown. She was very cute. She was very irritating. Sighing, he leaned his head into his hand, lazed against one of the tables. "Throw the breakfast away and take her lunch. She'll get hungry eventually."

On the contrary, she did not get hungry eventually. Lunch came and went with the same story as before – uneaten food, unhappy girl; she drank the fruit juice once again and Illumi ordered the kitchen to give her only a glass of water with dinner. More vegetables, a small steak, roast potatoes. In an experimental attempt at coaxing her, Tsubone was told to offer Chiara dessert in exchange for a finished plate. And so dinner came. And so dinner went. And Tsubone came to Illumi, seated over tea with Mother in her parlor, to reveal yet another dismissed meal.

Face lined with even more impatience than wrinkles, Tsubone said, "She tried to bargain. Dessert first, and then she would eat."

"You didn't oblige, of course?" Mother prompted.

"Absolutely not, Kikyo-sama."

"And then what?" Illumi asked.

"She pouted and fidgeted with the things on the dressing table. I believe she might be asleep now."

"What has she done all day?"

"It's hard to say. It seems she may have tried packing away the spoils from her recent shopping with Canary and Amane, though it doesn't appear that she's made any progress on that."

"I see." Tapping the rim of his teacup, Illumi hummed. "You may go now, Tsubone. I will check on her myself and reevaluate the situation in the morning."

With a curt bow and a swish of her coat tails, Tsubone left. Under Mother's eye, Illumi pursed his lips, shook his head. He'd expected Chiara to mope, of course – pouty lips and crossed arms and face flushed brightly with dismay, like a baby bird throwing a fit in its nest – but he also expected the butlers to handle it. This first day had not been successful. But first tries never were. Chiara would have to concede defeat eventually: she'd pick through her food reluctantly, but she'd eat; she'd try to make a show of defying instruction, but she'd listen sooner or later. She'd break. People always did. There were always cracks to be pried and weak points to be probed. Soon enough, Chiara would have to surrender and she would cry for Illumi and he would go to her knowing he'd won.

Mother tutted tetchily, pouring more tea for herself and Illumi. "You should never have allowed her to have gotten away with so much in the first place," she declared. " _This_ is what happens. Her mothers always bought into these nonsense temper tantrums of hers – that's where the problem began. And now there's you. You should never have given her all these liberties, no matter how small you supposedly perceived them to be."

"I had my reasons, Mother. I put up with giving her small victories for the satisfaction it allowed her."

"Like allowing her to skip meals? Letting her drink champagne when the doctor instructed otherwise?"

"Sweets and champagne are going to do nothing to her."

Sharply, Mother pinched Illumi's wrist, taloned nails seeping right into the flesh. "You've only ever known how to make her sick. And I've supported you on that. But now that your future children are at stake, you _yourself_ should be listening to the doctors." Her voice darkened pointedly. "Or don't you plan on giving me grandchildren? Is that why you haven't bothered sleeping with your wife recently?"

Illumi stared at her. He was used to Mother being intrusively straightforward – she had been so about matters of sex even before Illumi and Chiara had gotten married. "The doctor said that pregnancy would be dangerous, at this stage," he said.

"Tch. She means little if she's not contributing to the family anyway."

This was also a common theme in Mother's discourses. It never failed to make Father angry and Chiara despicably upset.

Because Chiara did want children. And Illumi wanted children. And after the doctor's appointment following their wedding, where a pronouncement had been made quite frankly to the whole family that Chiara would probably die in pregnancy or childbirth because her organs were constantly on the verge of collapsing like supernovas and her body was volatile (and, though this had gone unmentioned, that it was all Illumi's fault), the topics of sex and pregnancy and babies became an easy wound that Mother, being Mother, almost seemed to enjoy fondling.

Still, as much as he may have wanted to, Illumi wouldn't run the risk of a pregnancy. Even if that meant only having occasional… encounters of a not-entirely-satisfying nature… since Mother had banned the prescription or purchase of contraceptives. Blandly, Illumi drank his tea, Mother's nails still boring into his other wrist. "I'm sorry, Mother. I'll be sure to oversee her recovery more closely," he said. "I'll be more forceful about it."

* * *

_Still, she refused her meals. Breakfast, rejected. Lunch, scoffed at. And though Tsubone, within the deepest and most hidden depths of her soul, felt unfathomably sorry for the girl, she also dangled precariously at the very edge of her patience. Chiara could not be dealt with in the same way as one might have dealt with Killua or Kalluto; she was precious property, owned and not to be tampered with unless her owner dictated it._

_In the first place, Tsubone had been stunned that Zeno-sama would have allowed Chiara to leave. Knowing what would follow. Knowing it would incur Illumi's displeasure and that the only person it could possibly be directed towards would be Chiara. Locked up in her bedroom like a fairytale princess. And for wanting something so simple as to be with her husband. Tsubone may have shushed Amane and Canary's dissident insistences – it wasn't fair, it wasn't right, poor Chiara, it wasn't fair – but within herself, she could not fault them. Because it wasn't fair. A girl like that should never have been allowed to have married into the Zoldyck family. But what were they, as butlers, to do?_

_They could only listen._

_They could only put up silently with the way Chiara languished amongst the mess of her bedroom – beautiful dresses and skirts thrown in elegant lumps across the furniture, Illumi's needles patterned across the dressing table amongst perfume bottles and necklaces and make up. She glared at the food she was given like it was a dirty animal; she glared at Tsubone for refusing to speak to her. "Where is Illumi? I want to speak to Illumi. Listen to me! Why won't you answer me!?" They could only tolerate it as her bottom lip quivered, and her fists trembled at her sides, and her demands went unanswered._

_They could only say, "Yes, Illumi-sama," when they were finally instructed to force feed her._

_With Amane and Canary each holding one of Chiara's thin, delicate arms behind her back, she thrashed her head and held her lips, her teeth, firmly shut against the spoonfuls of rich, oily soup and mashed potato that Tsubone shoveled towards her._

" _I don't want it!"_

" _Just a few more bites, Chiara-sama," Amane said in an attempt to remain impassive, to be soothing. "Only a little bit more."_

" _Please, Chiara-sama," Canary echoed, "it's almost finished."_

_Tsubone didn't remind them that they weren't supposed to be speaking to her._

" _I. Don't. Want. It!" Tsubone had to hold Chiara's jaw shut, had to block her nose and watch her throat bob painfully as she swallowed. Cheeks flaring with high colour. Gagging. Gagging. Gagging. "I… want… Illumi," she murmured through her teeth. "Illumi!"_

_Did he watch her on some secret monitor? Did his Mother? Did they make a grand show of it for the whole family?_

_Did Illumi feel anything at all?_

_For such a frail girl, Chiaraleft Tsubone exhausted. The bowl emptied and lined with a slick of briny oil. Chiara's face wet with angry, defiant tears. Tsubone sent Canary and Amane away, watching alone for some time as Chiara coiled in on herself like an anxious bud – making no sound, utterly still beneath her quivering. Tsubone sighed and made to leave: back turning, head shaking, which was when Chiara flung herself forth in a flurry of agile, striking movement. She was in the bathroom and vomiting up her dinner before Tsubone could wrench back her head to stop her._

* * *

_The phone rang. When Gotoh picked up, a familiar voice was on the other line._

" _Put me through to my sister."_

" _I'm afraid I cannot do that, Tadashi-sama."_

" _Why the fuck not?"_

" _Chiara-sama is currently unavailable."_

_Probably throwing up her breakfast. Probably pacing her bedroom and waiting for a husband that wasn't much of a husband._

" _She's always unavailable. And she hasn't responded to three of my letters now."_

_Because after Chiara had managed to slip certain lines of invisible ink into her last few letters (discovered much too late) she was under her mother-in-law's careful scrutiny and suffered impossibly strict censoring; Kikyo-sama had deemed all her recent letters unsendable._

" _I will see to it that her replies are written and delivered to you," Gotoh said._

" _Like hell you will, asshole! Put me through to Chiara. Or let me speak to Illumi. I can speak to my brother-in-law, can't I?"_

" _Illumi-sama is currently unavailable."_

" _Fucking shit-faced Zoldyck cunts! Get me my goddamn sister! I want to speak with her. She's told me all about the–"_

_Gotoh hung up._

* * *

It was not going well at all. Chiara still had yet to eat – what had been forced down her throat had been brought back up and into the drains. Illumi knew she was doing this purely out of spite – baiting him into losing his patience and simply giving up on the whole thing. She'd done it since she was a teenager, treated punishments as battles of attrition, behaving in ever worse ways until her mothers and their maids and his family and their butlers were forced to let her have her way.

But Illumi had nowhere to be for a while still. He had all the time and all the patience required to carry out this punishment to fruition, though it seemed he would have to take something of a different direction to what he'd originally planned. Which was unfortunate, which was not the way he'd wanted things to go. But he was in no way averse to doing what was necessary.

"What are you going to do to her?" Milluki asked on the morning of the fourth day. They were both in the kitchen, watching Chiara's breakfast being prepared.

"Nothing you need to know about."

"Let me help!" he cried with wicked interest. "I can get her to listen to you, no problem, Illu-nii. You didn't want to get involved right? I can do a better job than the butlers can."

Knowing full-well that Milluki was not in the least bit concerned with being helpful as he was with satisfying some jealous need, Illumi only laughed in his face. He'd sooner let Chiara run rampant through the streets of some lustful, unknown city than let Milluki into their bedroom.

He had Amane take the breakfast tray.

He went to the bedroom, unlocked the door.

Chiara was on the bed, curled up tiny with her head to her knees in amongst an intimate tumble of sheets. Her gown hung in silky green rumples over her shoulders and down her arms, her hair tousled artfully in a disaster like wisteria blown about by the wind. She didn't look up – not until Illumi said her name, and she lifted her swollen, bloodshot eyes to blink at him as though he were an apparition, an illusion conjured by a lonely, lovely mind.

She shuffled off from the bed and came to throw her arms around his shoulders, unfazed by Amane as she stood obediently with breakfast. Her face in his neck. Up on tip-toe, still only just able to rest her cheek against his collar bone. She smelled of sleep and tears; her arms felt almost horrifically light around Illumi, her waist small enough that he was almost nervous to hold her. Hands finding their way over her hips, he wondered how easily he'd be able to close his grasp around her, touching opposite fingers from either side of her body. A sound reverberated in her throat without forming into any coherent word. Softly, coldly, Illumi pushed her away.

"You can put the tray down," he said to Amane, gesturing towards the bench at the end of their bed. "Then you may leave."

Amane did so, keeping her head low. When she was gone, Illumi pushed the door closed behind her.

"Why did you take so long to come?" Chiara murmured, voice hoarse. "I wanted to see you."

"I'm not answering questions. Sit."

"But _why_?"

"Sit."

She went meekly to the bench, gown dragging and fluttering with her quick, uneasy steps. For a long moment, Illumi considered her – the dark bags beneath her eyes like smudged makeup, the hollows of her collarbones like balconies. Her hands were restless in her lap, and it was clear she was trying hard not to look at the food just next to her. Like she was afraid of it.

Illumi sat on the other end of the bench, the tray separating them. He took off the lid, revealing a near-perfect replica of the breakfast she'd been served for the last three days: porridge with milk and cinnamon, two boiled eggs, a snack plate of fruit. He'd allowed orange juice instead of water this time. But she would be allowed to have that last.

"Eat."

Chiara stared at the plate, expression contorting with displeasure. "It's so much." She looked to Illumi. "I can't eat all of it."

"You will. I'm going to make sure of it." He tapped his fingertip against the edge of the bowl. "Now. Eat."

Timid and slow, she took the spoon. Slipped it into the porridge. She stirred, biding her time and obviously, shamelessly, growing more disgusted the longer she slopped it around. When at last she did lift the spoon to her lips, it was with only the tiniest splotch of a serving. She bit at it, swallowed grudgingly. Then she threw the spoon down and pushed the porridge away. "No," she said, cheeks puffing pink and unhappy. "I don't like it. I'll have something else."

Illumi sighed. "Chiara…"

"I don't want it, Illumi."

"I don't care."

"You aren't normally like this," she just about spat. "You're only doing this because you're mad with me. You're being _spiteful_."

Shutting his eyes thoughtfully, Illumi waited a moment before answering. "No." He touched his fingertip to the bowl and pushed it back towards her. "It's only that I've realised something. You don't need me to say it do you? I've been much too lenient with you. You see, I trusted that you'd be able to look after yourself. For me. That you'd at least do your best to stay healthy and to get better. But instead, you've only been getting worse and worse, and now I need to keep an even closer eye on you." He gestured to the food again. "So. You _will_ eat, willingly or not, and I won't stand for you vomiting it up."

Chiara withered slightly. "But… _Illumi_ … it's too much."

"It's the correct portion for a girl your age and size."

"I won't be able to keep it all down."

"You will."

"Please, _please_ , Illumi. I don't want it. I'll eat something else."

" _Eat_."

Another moment's hesitation. Chiara looked at him with a pleading, heartbreaking expression – nothing Illumi hadn't seen before though. Nothing he hadn't said 'no' to before. Surely, even now, she knew he only wanted what was best for her; he could not be taken up with her soft, girlish whims – just like he'd spoiled Killua, he'd spoiled her. He couldn't anymore. It had gone too far.

So he watched in silence as she eventually took a boiled egg from its plate. Fingers trembling. Wrists fragile and thin as porcelain. She plucked ineffectually at the egg's shell for a moment before holding it out to him. "I can't," she murmured.

"Here." Illumi took it and began to peel. "Eat the apples in the meantime." Then, more gently, "Do you see they're shaped like bunnies?"

She didn't reply. Only took one of the apple bunnies and nibbled it painfully slow, slow, slow. She liked apples. Illumi had sprinkled them with little bits of brown sugar in an attempt to tempt her. But apparently, she didn't notice. She swallowed as though her throat had been scraped raw. She made feeble sounds as she chewed.

Illumi discarded the egg shell on the side plate, and set the egg itself back in its cup.

Chiara finished the apples.

"See?" he smiled. "That wasn't so bad. Eat the porridge now, for me."

The spoon found itself in her fingers once again, and she began to stir, stir, stir – it was an excruciating exercise in patience. Untouched food. Empty body. But no. He had all the time in the world to watch her eat. He had nothing more important to do than make sure she did as she was told. Defiance would do nothing for her now. The spoon, a lacing of porridge at its tip, went to her lips. She ate. One spoon more. Another – and then nothing for a while. Staring fixedly at the tray, breaths labored and despondent. When she lifted her eyes to meet Illumi's once again, the space between them seemed to waver with mounting feeling.

She said, quietly, "I've had enough."

"No. You'll finish it."

" _I've had enough_."

"Finish."

"No." Surprisingly, she narrowed her eyes at him as she pushed away the porridge bowl again. "I don't want anymore. I don't want to eat."

Illumi gripped her wrist harshly (just one flick – it always astounded him how easily he'd be able to hurt her if he wanted to). "Don't you realise how silly you sound?" he demanded.

"Please just stop. You're being unfair. So unfair!" she was speaking rapidly now, voice bounding up and down in an erratic sing-song. "I've learned my lesson ~ I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I won't do it again. Just – just stop this. Making me eat isn't going to do anything." She said it like she believed it. "This is so stupid, Illumi!"

"For what reason do you keep disobeying me? Are you unhappy?"

Chiara shook her head.

"Do I need to use force?" Illumi reached out with his free hand and ran his palm down her temple, over her cheek. "You know I don't want to do that. Don't make me."

"Lumi."

"I only want you to take care of yourself. I only want what's best for you. Don't you trust me, Chi-Chi-bean? My love? What have I done for you to act like this?"

Nose crinkling, she huffed, the sound unsteady with threatening tears. Multiple times in the moments that followed, she looked as though she would speak – at first, insolently, tongue poised to spit more contradictions and refusals; then she faded into resignation, greying in her cheeks and deflating with a sigh. Without a word, at last, she conceded her defeat, and Illumi smiled lovingly when she took the boiled egg he had peeled and bit into it with a subtle, restrained disgust. "That's it," Illumi cooed. "That's my good girl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to give spoilers or anything, but next chapter, I'll be putting the rating up to M. ;) See you then!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the previous chapter, this one is just pure hedonistic indulgence. You have been warned.
> 
> Keeping Illumi in character was hard af, but I've pretty much decided that I kind of suck at writing Illumi and he's been largely out of character for the last eighteen chapters anyway. So oh well.

_Present Day_

The next two days went smoothly. Chiara ate – not always all of her food, and often with dredging slowness. But she ate sufficiently and with compliance enough that Illumi was pleased.

He himself didn't go back to their bedroom again. His presence had been something of a last resort, but at the very least it had been effective, and now Tsubone and Gotoh reported near-perfect cooperation: Chiara had packed away a little bit more from her shopping, she had washed her hair and fitted on new and old dresses to pass the time. Obviously, she wasn't happy, neglected and alone – there were no more temper tantrums, but instead the tell-tale signs of a sour, budding grudge. She grew wordless and waifish, glaring at Tsubone and Gotoh with a child's ire whenever they brought her food.

Before this, they'd been her favourite butlers.

Every evening, Tsubone had brushed out Chiara's hair and massaged flowery lotions into her feet. Painted her nails in pastel pinks while she nibbled on expensive chocolates – courtesy of Grandfather. (Illumi had a feeling that Tsubone thought these feminine assignments to be below her, though he also suspected she rather grudgingly enjoyed having a girl to treat as just that – a girl).

Gotoh always accompanied Chiara when she played with Mike or wandered the mountain; there had been numerous occasions where she had gotten bored with and exhausted by the walking, and Gotoh had been made to carry her back to the mansion, her arms slung lamely around his shoulders and her lips bowed in a pleasant, generous smile. Forest flowers in her hair, one or two stuck in his as well. Her bare feet smudged with grass stains and dust while one hand clutched her shoes behind Gotoh's neck.

Now, she would forget about how they had pandered to her whimsical little whims. Instead, she would bracket both Gotoh and Tsubone with the last days' unhappiness – being ignored, being force-fed, being powerless against mere butlers – and so she would cold-shoulder them.

Illumi couldn't say this wasn't what he had intended.

Sometimes, such emotional pruning was necessary. For her own good.

On the evening of the fifth day, he went to see her. A sense of achievement nestled itself in his chest, also a bristling anticipation because he'd missed her tremendously. It was one thing to forget about her when he was occupied with a job; it was wholly another when he could only sit around the mansion, so close he could reach out to touch her. _You've been so good_ , he planned to say. _You can come out now_. _Let's go for a walk or a picnic for dinner – let me indulge you_.

She was sprawled across the carpet, stomach down with stockinged legs kicking lackadaisically behind her. Surrounding her were half-emptied shopping bags and a laughable number of glittering, ribboned, designer shoes, most of which still had tags on them.

"Chi-chi-bean."

She looked over her shoulder at him.

Illumi raised his eyebrows in a show of curiosity. "What are you busy with?"

"Regretting my decision to buy so many shoes."

"Mmm. You did buy rather a lot. I owe Grandfather over three hundred thousand jenny now."

This seemed to surprise her. "I spent that much?"

"You did."

"Sorry."

"You could have just asked if you wanted to go shopping, you know," he said. "I'm happy to buy you whatever you want."

Sluggishly, not offering a reply, Chiara curled herself into a sitting position. She blinked at Illumi, a gossamer air of expectation about her. Eventually, she asked in a low, coy voice, "Are you still angry?"

He went towards her, crouching so that they were eye-to-eye. "I wasn't angry. Just disappointed."

"Am I still in trouble?"

"No. You've been a good girl."

"So will Gotoh and Tsubone be allowed to speak to me again?"

On this, Illumi said nothing. He brushed a strand of hair behind Chiara's ear. "It's almost dinnertime," he said, and smiled at the sick expression that crossed her face. "And I thought that since you've been behaving yourself so well, you could choose what you want to eat. I have–"

"Cake."

Illumi blinked at her. "That was quick."

"I've had a lot of time to think about it."

"I'm afraid cake is not one of the options."

"Then _cup_ cakes."

"Also not."

Brazenly, she poked a finger into his chest. "But _you said_ –!"

"You didn't let me finish."

She scowled.

And to her crinkled little nose, Illumi pressed his fingertip. "I have thought of a few things that you like that will also suit the new diet I'll be putting you on – no, don't pull that face at me, Chiara, just listen – you like quiche, yes? Or what about fish? Mother recently had the kitchen restocked, so there are all the necessary ingredients for tempura. Prawns, vegetables. Or I could have that creamy soup made – the one with the broccoli and green peppers. You liked that one, didn't you?"

Chiara pouted feebly, incredulous, saying nothing. In a charmed moment, Illumi traced his finger from the tip of her nose to the delicate curve of her Cupid's bow, settling fondly on her lips.

"Too much to choose from?" he said. "That's alright. I'll let you think about it for a bit. In the meantime, what would you like to do? Why don't we go for a walk? I'm sure you'd like to stretch your legs."

"To do?" She thought for a moment, and then she asked, "Do you need to be anywhere in the next hour?"

"No."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

"Then I want to take a bath," she said intently. "With you. I can wash your hair."

Illumi hummed. "I had it washed just the other day."

"Well, I can wash it again then." She cocooned his hand in hers, dropped his touch from her chin and into her lap. "Please?"

He didn't enjoy baths – pruning in hot water and steam held no appeal whatsoever. But she asked so nicely, eyelashes fluttering charmingly, and if this was really the only thing – well, who was he to say no? After everything, he could stomach to humour her a little bit, lured by the solicitous gleam in her expression and the glow that rose into her eyes when he told her yes.

And so it went, with Illumi undressing – struck by the realisation of how long it had been since he'd been naked in front of her (and she in front of him) – while Chiara overfilled the bath. He was disappointed when she kept a towel wrapped around herself, sitting on the ledge of the bath so that he could climb himself between her legs, her knees alongside his shoulders and her fingers finding their way into his neck. The water was meltingly warm, slick against his skin, heavy down his back as Chiara poured it through his hair.

The steam carried scents of her: the bubble bath she liked to use, the hyacinth-hue of her perfume. Gentle and unspeaking, she massaged shampoo into his scalp, combed conditioner down to his ends and rinsed, rinsed, rinsed – the softness of it sending shivers of delicious feeling along the entire length of his spine. He wrapped his hand around her thigh, turned his head to plant a kiss against the boney inside of her knee. At the touch, he felt her stiffen with a peculiar tension.

"Why are you so quiet?" he asked her.

"I don't know."

"Are you upset about something?"

No response.

Illumi pried his neck to look at her. "You understand why I needed to punish you, don't you?"

Chiara nodded slowly.

"And did you learn your lesson?"

Slow, a little sensually, her fingers curled against his nape. "That I… shouldn't leave the mountain?"

"Is that it?"

"I'm sorry." Her palm flattened, pressured its way into the space between his shoulder blades, further still down the grooves of his back. "I'm tired and not really sure what to think about it. But I won't leave the mountain again. I just – I don't know." Ghostingly light, she traced her way upwards again. "You're very tense, you know."

"Mmm. This helps."

"Illumi… Can I ask you about something that's been on my mind?"

"You may."

As though stringing a harp, she ran her hands through his hair again, the motion and sensation soothing to the point that Illumi almost didn't pay attention to what she said next. "Please don't get mad or anything." An accented silence, in wait of a reply. When none came, she proceeded timidly. "The clown – or, sorry, the _magician_ from Heaven's Arena. Hisoka." The name made Illumi's stomach clench. "Are you really friends with him?"

He frowned, stroking his fingertips down her shin. "Have you been stewing over this?"

"A little." Another pause. "A lot."

"We're not friends," Illumi said. "You should know that already. Shouldn't even bother wondering about it. We have a give-and-take relationship."

She sounded unconvinced. "What does he give you?"

"He's strong. Strong people are useful." At his saying so, her hands froze in his neck. He turned to look at her again. "Something wrong?"

"Am I useful?"

"You don't need to be."

She sighed, touch falling away and leaning herself against the bath's edge. "So _no_."

"Does it matter?"

"No. Yes. Probably not that much. It's just that…" Expression twisted into brooding curls, hair slightly damp with the foggy steam and falling over her naked shoulders to the ridge of her towel, she looked unfairly lovely. Vulnerable, face downturned in frustration. "I just don't want to be useless," she murmured, not meeting Illumi's eye. "It's why you don't want me with you when you go away, right? Because I can't do anything."

To hear her say it, true though it may have been, struck Illumi. He tipped his head in thought, considered the fretful bow of her mouth and the tight line of her shoulders. "If it's any consolation," he told her, "you'll have my children one day. That's something useful."

Apparently unmoved, Chiara hummed.

She rose from her place behind him. There was the wet sound of her feet on the tile, the faintest thump of material dropping – Illumi, watching her, felt his heart go dumb at the sight: her, now naked as a river nymph through the steam. She stepped carefully into the bath, lowering herself to straddle his hips. Something sharp slapped itself through his gut, his groin – _oh god_ , her skin, the zig-zag of blotchy scars down her ribs and stomach… whenever he watched her dress in the mornings, it was only for glimpses of bare back, of her slinky thighs and boney shoulders. Not like this.

Now, he could hardly bare to decide where to look first. The milky mounds of her breasts, cool pink nipples small and tightly pricked; the lean, feminine stretch of her stomach in all its luminous whiteness, dotted with a mole near her navel, contained within the frame of her ribcage and narrow hipbones; the intimate triangle between her legs, nestling audaciously and deliciously against his groin. Placing her palms along his shoulders, clutching him with a suggestive weight, Chiara brought her face close to his own.

"We can't have kids if you never touch me, you know," she muttered.

Illumi dropped his head to the side. "I do touch you. We're touching right now, aren't we?"

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

He couldn't possibly pretend not to know. Probingly, eyes remaining fixedly on hers, he lifted a hand to her breast, cupping it and kneading lightly and simmering on the inside at the feel of her in his palm like a cup of sweet, rare wine. The feeling as potent as the very first time he had touched her – really, somehow, this felt just the same. "Is this what you mean?" he asked.

Bottom lip slipping between her teeth, she leaned herself more deeply against him. Willing him to hold her harder. Flitting herself in unconscious (?) flirtation over his already half-hard cock. "Yes," she said, voice a loaded breath. Close to a plea. "Yes, _exactly_."

"Do you want me to touch you more like this?"

"Much more."

Under normal circumstances, Illumi would have avoided this as much as possible. For obvious reasons. He wanted her. He always wanted her. It was better to pretend he didn't – at least for now, just for now. Until her body could carry a child and he could fuck her for all the right reasons rather than just for the sake of fleeting catharsis. But he'd walked himself into this; it was rather too late to stop now. And so, limbs prickling to life with a long-buried expectation, he humoured her and indulged himself. "Show me where you want me."

She took his other hand and brought it to her neglected breast, guiding his palms into a firm, tender massage. He watched her face, the rose-hue that tinted itself over her nose and cheek, her neck as she swallowed on what could only have been a moan, a wordless signal for more. Eyes half-lidded, drawn to the sight of his hands on her skin.

"Where else?" he asked her.

"Here."

"And where else?"

"Here, and _here_."

"Show me."

With a listless surprise, she blinked at him, tongue flashing coyly over her lips. Then she dipped her fingers down, down, down, scaling the fleshy plain between her hipbones and the tidy dusting of soft, thin hair just beneath, until her fingertips stroked that singular, pivotal spot between her legs in a timid oscillation – once again, she resisted whatever lovely sound her lungs forced into her throat, tried hard to look at Illumi though the embarrassment or the feeling pressed her to drop her gaze.

The bathwater quaked in miniature waves around them. Droplets gathered in the juncture between her thigh and hip; the steam settled in a glaze over her skin, crystalline and clammy. Illumi bowed himself towards her, sinking his head into her neck so as to press his lips along the tendons, the delicate undulations of muscle and bone. He scaled her jaw, her chin, until finally, flagrantly, his mouth found hers. Her breath – hot and pining, weighed with implication. His tongue, tracing the shape of her bottom lip in search of a place to settle, touching the tip of her own tongue teasingly until it escalated to clashing teeth and her falling sighs disappearing into his kiss.

Her fingers fell deeper into herself until her hips were bucking against him. He grew harder still beneath her, hands falling from her chest to her hips to the curve of her backside. He watched her, knowing the way he stared would not put her off.

"Chiara."

She only vaguely acknowledged him. "Mmm?"

"Tell me something." At last, he rounded his touch to the stretch of skin between her hipbones, pushing her own hand away as he did so. He spread his palm, touched the tip of his thumb to the taut bundle of her clit. "Do you touch yourself when I'm gone?" It was something he thought about more often than he'd want to admit. But it was there – lewd, personal imaginings flashing through his mind whenever he was alone in a foreign bed. 

Now was as good a time as any to feed into the fantasy of it.

Her answer didn't come immediately. Instead, she balanced her hands against his chest and rubbed herself onto him, searching for pressure. "Depends," she murmured eventually.

"On what?"

She tilted her head at him. "I don't want you to be mad at me if I tell you the truth."

So she did then. The thought of it – legs spread wide beneath their bedsheets, stroking keeningly at herself in imitation, in substitution of his hands – made Illumi thumb her approvingly so that she went stiff with a gasp. "I see," he said, and smiled small. "And tell me – who do you think of when you do these things to yourself?" He brought the rest of his fingers against her, cupping the shape of her cunt and clasping in eager entreaty. "Whose name do you say?"

"Yours," she squeaked.

"How?"

"It – I don't –"

"Say it for me," he said, and plunged a finger inside of her as he did so.

It elicited a gorgeous sound, a sing-song of just the right syllables shivering off her tongue. "Oh god," she crooned. "Oh god, _Illumi_ ~"

"Ah-hah, there we go. You're such a good girl." He dipped in another finger, the flesh of her insides soaking and tight as he fed himself in and out of her, his heart going dumb at the face she made. "And all mine, yes?" he prompted. "Tell me you're all mine."

"Yours ~ just… all yours. Ah, please, Illumi, _more_ ," she said in broken gasps. "More."

Drawing his fingers out of her with a delightfully wet sound, Illumi draped her legs around his waist; holding her there, one hand grasping the back of her nape to kiss her while the other lingered on the back of her thigh, he rose from the bath and purposefully paid no attention to her impossible lack of weight, to the ease with which he plastered her against himself and scaled the bathroom floor. He focused instead on the way their bodies dripped. How desperately she clung to him, feeding into his kiss and grinding the surprising, sensitive parts of herself – her hipbones, the back of her neck – into his touch.

It was a short path from the bath to the bed. At this point, Illumi didn't care that they would be sleeping in wet bedding. Like caressing fine china, he lowered Chiara onto the mattress, pressing her onto her back with his weight over her torso, his lips wandering their way down into her neck and collar bones and chest to suckle at her nipple. He pinched the other between his fingertips, slicked his tongue over every little piece of sensitive flesh he could reach until one breast was red with his pawing and the other shimmering with his saliva. His hands groped at the crevices of her frame, from her arm pits to her elbows and back again, falling with the rest of his body down her ribcage until they came to clutch the circumference of her hips.

There, he dropped his head in between her legs, licked smoothly up her slit where it was still warm and wet with the bath, and begging to be touched. Whimpering faintly, feebly, Chiara tried to buck herself against his tongue – he held her down, relishing how frantically she gazed at him, how desperately she _wanted_ him. Only him. Always him.

He sucked. He tasted. He buried his tongue into her as though her arousal were ambrosia itself. Her hands clawed impatiently against her thighs – not daring to reach for his hair as it clung sopping and heavy to his back and shoulders – while her toes curled against the bedsheets. She was so beautiful. She was so vulnerable. Only his, always his: this writhing, aching version of her for his eyes and his touch and his tongue alone.

"Does that feel good?" Illumi asked her, pulling away to caress her inner thigh with his cheek.

She made some sort of sound of approval. "So, so nice," she said, head twisting against the bed. "Do it more."

He buried his fingers back inside of her, mouth closing around her clit once again and sucking, fumbling, savoring the texture. After so many years of studying her responses, feasting on the way her body squirmed when he touched her _just so_ and how she covered her mouth to moan when he kissed her _just so_ , he knew precisely where to find what he sought. _That_ spot. He crooked his fingers, scraping the delicate wall of her insides, petal-smooth and fluttering. Again, again, until her thighs were shaking with the exertion of welcoming him in and she was arching her back so that her ribcage jutted and her stomach stretched gloriously like an unfurling butterfly.

" _Illumi_ ~"

He thrust his fingers into her harder, sucked until his throat felt raw and then sucked more still.

She groaned out incoherent murmurings, chewed on her bottom lip to the mask the sound. And when she came – _ah, Illumi, Illumi!_ – body twisting and shuddering and singing in a most perfect display of possession, she bit hard enough into her hand that Illumi couldn't be quite sure whether her moans were because of him or because she'd hurt herself. She continued to tremble for moments after, opened her eyes in dreamy half-moons to gaze down her body at him.

There was the taste of her on his tongue – metallic, somewhere between sweet and sour – as he rose from between her legs and climbed himself back over her. Kissed her. Forced her mouth open so that she could taste herself too. She whined into his lips, a sound like she wanted to cry.

"Are you tired?" Illumi muttered, not pulling away.

"No," she sighed. "I haven't – haven't done anything yet."

"Yet?"

For a moment, she was quiet, breathing heavy and satiated. Then she moved against him in a strange, slurred movement, twisting her head to smile at him giddily.

"Can I suck your cock?" She asked, like it was a secret. Before he could answer, she was sliding herself out from under him, dipping to her knees at the edge of the bed with a sweet, suppliant look. She nestled herself between his legs as he turned himself to sit, their positions now switched and delightfully so. Around his erection, Chiara closed her hand, brought her lips close so that she was speaking against his red, vulnerable tip. Chest still heaving. Breath hot and melting over his skin. "Please?"

Originally, he had planned to end things after she'd orgasmed. Quickly. Simply. Either finishing off himself or ignoring his erection until it simply went away. But now, she kissed up and down the sensitive length of his cock in imploration. Skin drying, hair a darling puff around her face as she looked up at him with the wide-eyed glow of excitement. He liked her on her knees, couldn't bother saying no to her like this – and so, in answer to her question, he only leaned back onto his hands, tilted his head as a sign that he was watching. She closed her lips around him, sank herself down his length slowly and delectably, all the textures of her mouth and spit mingling into a tight, warm pressure that made Illumi shiver hazily.

Her tongue curved along the underside, brushing roughly as she dipped and receded. He gazed at the hungry shape of her lips, the saliva pooling at their corners as she headed him deeper and ever more desperate. Greedily, Illumi allowed himself a sigh. He combed his fingertips through her hair, clasped a fistful at the back of her head and guided her to go faster. Deeper still. His hips thrusting in close imitation of fucking her for real. Cock beginning to ache, a satiating burn climbing through his body. The feeling of it mounted, swelled, engorged itself in all the right places – rising into a sensation that was the closest he'd ever come to pain.

She hummed around him, the reverberation chilling in its pleasure. Her hands clasped his thighs, climbed clumsily between his hips and knees.

Illumi was opposed to dirty photographs. But when she looked up at him from that sheer angle, eyes dewy and jaw soaked with drool and his pre-cum, he thought that maybe just once wouldn't be such a bad thing (then again, he thought this every time he came into her mouth). He released her hair and moved his hand under her chin, shifting her rhythmically with the lilts of his hips while keeping her gaze fixed on him, him, him.

" _You're all mine_ ," he muttered, and liked the way she smiled a little around him.

Another hum, mellifluous and full-bodied. She sucked sharply before pulling away to plant one last kiss at his tip.

Then, wiping her mouth with her wrists, Chiara stood herself between his legs. One knee onto the bed, then the other, hand grazing down his torso to continue pumping him. His hands flattened in the valley between her shoulder blades; he closed his mouth around the bump at the end of her collarbone, holding her gentle and steady as she worked him – palm textured with more scars; fingers fluttering in delicate beckoning. He flicked his tongue over her shoulder. She snaked her lips against his temple, hair falling like a pale purple veil along the shape of their faces together.

"Illumi," she whispered.

"Chiara."

"I want to have you inside of me. Properly." She chewed on his earlobe sweetly. "Please."

He sighed. "No."

" _Please_."

"No – just keep doing this," he muttered, touching her hand around his length. "This is good."

"But–"

"I said no."

She stopped. She angled herself away from him, face still flushed to the colour of peaches and cream but now masked by a glazed displeasure. "Why not?"

It took unnecessary effort for Illumi to answer her clearly. Even then, what he offered was not much by way of an answer. But it was sufficient and it was true. "You know why."

"Because you don't want me as much as I want you?"

He frowned at her. "Don't be childish," he said. "You cannot get pregnant. That's all."

A pause. Everything inside of Illumi throbbed, craving, and he wished Chiara would carry on with her mouth around his dick. But alas – she stared at him for some time and then slinked off from his lap wordlessly, looking as though to walk away; however, she only turned towards her bedside table, body a frail curve of white flesh and bone as she opened the drawer and probed through her collection of letters and photographs and postcards. What she revealed was a small, square packet, holding it out to Illumi timidly.

He felt his eyebrows raise "Where did you get that?"

"From your parents' room," she said, as though this answer in itself didn't raise more questions. "I have a few. They won't know anything's missing."

"Chiara–"

She opened the packet. "Nobody needs to know, okay?"

"And how do you propose we get rid of it?"

"I'll sort that out."

"Will you now?"

"Just this once, Lumi." Blushingly, casting the empty package aside, she gestured for him to take the condom. "For me. This has been so nice and I don't want to stop now. _Really_ don't. I want to do it for real." She came close again, fingering Illumi where pre-cum leaked out from his tip. "Don't you?" she cooed. There was a certain cadence to her voice Illumi recognised – a sugary, multi-faceted edge she hadn't used on him in a long time. When he said nothing, only staring at her inquiringly and half-vexed, she melted into a sheepish whisper. "Mostly," she said, dropping her gaze, "I just want to pretend you're fucking babies into me."

 _Oh_ _god_.

He took the condom from her.

And after prying it onto himself, he gripped Chiara by the waist and circled her back onto the bed, body landing with a muted thud. She blinked up at him, enamored and startled – but why should she have been when she probably knew full-well that he wanted to pretend exactly the same thing as she did?

The condom would likely cause problems later, if not taken care of discreetly. And 'just this once' would probably make it all the more difficult to resist the next 'just this once'. But her cunt was soaking beneath him. And it was so pretty, the way his hair fell about her like a concealing curtain ( _all his!_ ), and the way her tongue looked as he dragged his thumb down her lips ( _all his!_ ). Her white skin, her scars. The jutting peaks of her hipbones and ribs and neck. Everything. All of her ( _all his!_ ).

He ground his cock between her legs; he adored the sounds that bubbled from the back of her throat and the glassy, reeling look on her face. And taking himself in his hand, sinking himself into her, he felt his pulse spike at the way her insides clasped to him ( _his, his, his!_ ).

He thrusted. Hard. The feeling an ungodly sort of good. In a shock of movement, her arms were around him, her nails were in his back, pulling him down against her as she cracked out a broken cry. Face in his neck. His forearm cradling her head. In-out, in-out. Hips harsh against each other, possibly bruising. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and he allowed it. He buried himself inside of her with a desperate, demanding insistence, lost to the feeling of her beneath him and around him and biting into his shoulder as she made to stifle weak whimpers.

" _Ha- harder, Illumi_ … Ah, yes... _More_."

There was the sound of flesh hitting flesh, of heavy breaths and sighs. Inside of Illumi, everything seemed to knot into hot, agonizing points of frenzy. Shuddering. Throbbing. His back ached with the weight of the feeling. His fingers sought out her hair; his lips, her face, marring her with kisses to the temple and eyelids, her forehead and nose. Until at last he found her mouth, biting into her bottom lip and setting his tongue between her teeth. She said something, the shape of the words lost. She kissed him ardently, painfully.

And then something unraveled. With a final flurry of desperate thrusts, Illumi gasped into her mouth as a spark plunged through his body's depths and he came inside of her with despairing relief. Tipping over some perilous edge. Imagining how he filled her – how her body begged for his seed. Fucking babies into her.

All his.

Always and only his.

He pulled out with a spent groan, cock slick with cum. He loved the way she clung to him in resistance.

Sluggishly, he threw the ruined condom somewhere to the side and dropped his head to Chiara's chest. Her heart galloped within her ribcage, hopelessly fast and seeming to grow faster still as Illumi's own breaths and heartbeats slowed. Sweaty or simply still wet with bath water, he couldn't say. Their hair lay tangled. His palm clung to one of her breasts as though cupping ripe fruit.

"Tell me you're mine," he breathed into her skin. 

She sounded sleepy and relieved. "I'm yours."

"And that you'll only ever love me."

"That goes without saying, silly."

" _Say it_."

Low and honeyed, she said it, drooping her arms loosely about his neck and shoulders and lolling her head to the side in a drowsy half-circle. The words echoed through Illumi's mind like a lullaby, and with eyes lightly closed, he allowed himself to doze into a fleeting, glossy sleep. Flares of colour sparkling beneath his lids, throbbing in time with Chiara's pulse. Her fingers in his hair. Words Illumi couldn't decipher ghosting from her lips and disappearing into the close, full air of their bedroom. He lay there until a thought occurred to him.

"Chiara."

"Mmm?"

"What are you going to have for dinner?"

* * *

 _Illumi Zoldyck had another weakness_. ♠️

_One wholly unlike his little brother, one secreted away and latent in the safety of his shadow. All dollified in frills and ribbons, with curls and rouged cheeks and expensive perfume to hide that pretty, seeping aura. Did Illumi keep her bottled up like a butterfly? Did he put her on the shelf like a porcelain doll to play with at his leisure? In a display cabinet locked by golden key and barred with glass? Or did he simply keep her strapped to the bed like most men with trophy wives were wont to do?_

_From the top of the grand stands at Heaven's Arena, looking down at Killua quashing his 130_ _th_ _floor opponent, Hisoka grinned._

_The Zoldyck family had always been such a fun bunch._

_And now, here was this girl who had made Illumi's – Illumi's! – face drop in something deliciously close to terror – terror! How quick he'd been to sweep her away! How protectively and possessively he'd kept her close! And goodness, how she'd fed into it all. Like a little lamb clinging to her shepherd. Chiara. Chi-ah-rah. With the jealous eyes and the clumsy manner. She didn't look strong. But she leaked an exotic, fruity Nen like pollen from a flower; one that had forced Hisoka to do a double-take at her that night at the bar. Oh, what an interesting toy she'd make – if not by her own right, for those tiny hands to fight and claw and scratch, then for that gorgeous bloodlust it would surely inspire in Illumi._

_Plucking a small piece of paper from his pocket, Hisoka eyed the telephone number scrawled across its center. For being such elusive assassins, the Zoldycks really wouldn't be all that much of a challenge to get hold of. Hello! Hisoka speaking! Please put me in touch with Mrs Chi-ah-rah Zoldyck._ ♥️

_Hisoka laughed, and rose to leave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I get a little carried away with this chapter? Absolutely.


	20. Chapter 20

It had been three months since the job in Yorknew – and like a bad dream, black and incandescent at her mind's edges, Chiara did her best to distance herself from the memory.

She threw away the clothing from those few weeks, the very fibers somehow tainted with the smell of sweat and smoke and old man. She woke up in the middle of the night with frightening urges to brush her teeth and scrub her legs, to banish the taste and texture of masculine tongue and hands from her cells.

But they didn't ever quite go away.

By now, Datari and Tadashi had stopped asking about what happened – what _exactly_ , their faces hungry for details as thirsty beggars; she couldn't bring herself to answer them. Nothing beyond that it had gone further than she'd expected it to, and that she'd felt everything ever trained into her body seizing up and bubbling away. Couldn't speak. Let alone fight. Or kill a man. And in the end, it had been Illumi who'd had to come to her rescue.

Mommy and Mamma didn't bring it up again either.

Chiara squirmed every night with fear that they'd find out.

Datari and Tadashi would tell them, or the Zoldycks would tell them, or she herself would let it slip in any multitude of little clues.

And she'd never see them proud of her again: their smacking kisses against her cheeks, champagne toasts, new dresses and toys (they'd bought her a traditional voodoo doll from some endangered tribe as a first-job-done present – she would have loved it under any other circumstances, the dead button eyes and the sloppy bean-sack limbs, but now she could hardly stomach to look at it). Would they punish her for lying, or for failing, or both? Slice her fingertips or shave her head? Would they punish the twins? Illumi?

Oh, Illumi.

She hadn't seen him again since the beach. But she'd gotten letters from him; the quickest replies he'd ever sent, and with a handwriting so much more messy and drawling it was almost impossible to read.

_Mother is pregnant again. She hopes it will be a girl. I think I'd like a little sister._

_Killua has now mastered playing darts, and can stand up to an otherwise lethal dose of such-and-such a poison._

_I've been thinking about the beach. I hope we can do something like it again soon_.

Chiara wished he wouldn't write things like that – not when Mommy and Missus Kikyo were reading their letters too. Even though he probably didn't mean anything by it – even though he was probably talking about the sun or the sand or the water or anything else besides how they had… yes. How they had Kissed. But still, it made Chiara's heart screech against the walls of her ribcage to be reminded, and the embarrassment of it was so much she could have cried. Right in front of Mommy and Datari, as she too read her letters from Illumi.

This was what it had been like to kiss him: funny, slurred, just like his bad handwriting. And oh, how his hands had shook when he'd held her cheeks! How her own fingers had twisted nervously in the sand, wanting to touch his face too but not being sure how or if she even could.

When he'd first asked if she wanted to kiss him, the man from Yorknew had reared himself on her tongue and down her legs like a phantom rising out from bile and spit. She'd wanted to say yes to Illumi. She'd also wanted to say no, because the more Illumi had pressed her the more she'd felt herself crumble with an anticipative sense of disappointment that kissing him would be no different to being kissed by that heavy, sour old man – but in the end, that had been the furthest thing from it.

Kissing Illumi had felt like everything Chiara could have wanted. Even if it was a little weird. Even if his tongue had been clumsy against hers – not like the sharp, expert way the man's had flicked against her teeth. She could have kissed him every day for the rest of her life. In the moment, it had felt like the simplest, nicest thing. She liked Illumi as maybe a little more than just a friend; and maybe he liked her too; and that was all there was to it.

But he was still engaged to Datari.

No matter how much Chiara daydreamed that he wasn't.

If Mommy and Mamma didn't already have reason enough to whip her until blood was running in scarlet ribbons down her back, they surely would if they found out that she was making a mess of Illumi and Datari's not-yet-marriage. Worse than being lashed, they'd probably never let her see Illumi again.

And so she never responded to his comments about the beach. She never told Tadashi or Datari about it even though the confession dangled dazzlingly at the end of her tongue every night before bed, less like a secret and more like a prayer just waiting to reach whatever god might have been listening. Surely, it wouldn't be so bad to tell them. It's not like they didn't already share in Chiara's shame. But then again, Datari would probably tease her unrelentingly – _sitting in a tree! k-i-s-s-i-n-g!_ – until she said something stupid enough for Mommy and Mamma to figure it out.

Chiara kept her mouth shut, swallowing hard on her blush whenever Illumi was mentioned around the dinner table. In the same way, when Mommy and Mamma announced that she'd be going on another mission soon-soon - this time bigger and better than the first - she made a grand show of hiding the relief and utter terror from her face.

Never in her life had she harbored so many secrets.

* * *

_She'd be leaving in two days. The bags were packed and all the arrangements made. And at the thought that, this time, she would be really and properly all alone, Tadashi wanted to die. She grinned at him like it was nothing, stuck her tongue out at him when he asked her if she felt ready. Yorknew hadn't been so long ago, he'd told her. Datari could take her place – she didn't need to go now – she didn't have anything to prove – she could train a little more and prepare a little more and maybe go on his next job with him (where he could protect her this time, like he'd failed to do before)._

_But no. She'd be just fine, silly. He had no need to worry! Besides – "I want to do this." All that little-girl determination in her voice, grey eyes gleaming hard and untruthful. "I want to do this properly so that you and Tari and Mommy and Mamma can all be proud of me. I can do it this time."_

_That night at dinner, she hardly ate._

_She hadn't been eating much for a while already. She pushed her food around with her chopsticks distractedly, chattering gay and restless while everybody else chewed. Of the few mouthfuls she did take, she chewed mechanically, with a fervour like her life depended on it, and immediately started talking again when she swallowed._

_Under the luminous, yellow light her face seemed a weird colour. She blinked very fast, tilted her head and shoulders oddly to the side._

_Tadashi stared at her, at the rapid tumble of words from her mouth. His little sister. How could he allow this to happen to his little sister?_

_"_ _Mommy," she said at last._

_"_ _Yes, baby?"_

_"_ _Everything looks a bit strange." Her chin lolled onto her chest, and she squinted hard between Mommy and Mamma. "I feel weird."_

_"_ _God, Chi-chi, are you that nervous?" Datari laughed, shrill as a song bird and cool as a succubus. But Tadashi could feel her simmering in the seat next to him. He slipped his hand into her lap, squeezed the skin of her thigh beneath her skirt. She clutched his hand in return, digging her nails into his palm. The cocktail of feelings he knew she felt remained absent from her voice. "Your blood sugar's probably just low, you baby."_

_"_ _That's right," Mamma said, and gestured to Chiara's untouched plate. "Finish your food. See how you feel after dinner."_

_"_ _The food tastes a bit funny though, doesn't it?" Chiara said, shoulders rising up unevenly into her neck. "Maybe it's too much salt. I don't know. Is there salt in this, Mommy? Mamma? Yes… The salt, probably. But… But I think… I'm going to be sick."_

_"_ _What?"_

_"_ _Sorry… I'm…" She stood up, turned away – Mommy and Mamma blinking absurdly at her back. "Don't feel well." In an awkward, swaying motion, she took a few steps from the table. "Mommy…"_

_They were all up from their seats, crockery bouncing and clanging, before Chiara hit the ground. Crumpling paper. Wilting flower. Mamma caught her in a swoosh of silk, cradled her in a fetal position as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her throat began to contract in awful, sick gasps. Her body convulsed. Head ticking garishly to the side, froth falling white and sticky down her chin._

_Mommy and Mamma crowded around her with fussing, expert hands. Abruptly. Moving in fast-forward while Tadashi's body fell swiftly and sickeningly into slow motion. He couldn't see what was going on, staring in awe and horror as he grasped Datari at his side. His little sister! There were maids before they knew it, ushering them out from the dining room. He could only glimpse Chiara's little body, tremoring as though possessed in Mamma's lap. Her head shot backwards, neck lifeless and bared, spine arching with dangerous shock. Then she started vomiting blood. It glittered crimson and violent against the expensive silk of Mamma's gown._

* * *

Of it all, she remembered very little.

Maids in flurries of movement, ghostly rushes of black and white uniforms and murmuring voices. Mommy's hands. Mamma's lips. All over her face like butterflies landing on flowers. She'd felt herself sinking through the bed, through the floor, through the entirety of space until she was being crushed by the weight of nothing. Black, black, black - ink oozing across her vision like the blood she felt falling from her lungs.

She remembered a lot of pain. Pain so ghastly, it constricted her and drowned her and chewed her to pieces. She'd imagined - or had she hallucinated? - the playroom-panther clasping to her insides with its teeth. Ripping her to pieces like a flimsy piece of cloth. Pain. So cold and shrill. How long had it lasted? Forever, it seemed like. So long, that when Chiara opened her eyes to the dim light of her bedroom - everything blurry, shapes in unfamiliar blotches at the corners of her vision - she wondered if maybe she'd missed years of her life to that stabbing, suffocating sensation.

Her forehead felt grossly warm, too close to her skull. A vague sense of nauseous aching curled itself atop her stomach, like a sleeping cat she dared not disturb. Thirsty. She was so thirsty.

"M-Mommy..." she murmured, the sound rolling around the void that had opened in her throat. "Mamma..."

"Shh, shh, it's okay now." A familiar voice. Chiara turned her neck cautiously across the pillow to find Illumi, perched at the edge of her bed and holding her hand. "Are you thirsty?" he asked her. "Do you need some water? Here." He let go of her hand, took a glass from the bedside table and held it to her lips. "Drink."

She did so with uneasy relief.

When she was finished, she tried to sit. Everything swam - her body, loose in all the wrong places and numb in all the others; Illumi, a glowing, watery specter in near perfect detail. Floppy hair over his ears, purple turtle neck sweater. Chiara focused on these things rather than how badly her back felt like it would snap in two, how her hair clung to the sides of her face like wet weeds.

"What-"

"You seem to have come down with something," Illumi said quickly. With an affection that was almost motherly, he touched the back of his hand to her forehead and hummed, nodded in affirmation. "Your temperature is still high. And you're very pale. Are you in pain? There's a bucket here if you need to puke. Does it hurt here?" He pressed lightly against her stomach over the blanket.

Chiara shook her head even though the gentleness of his touch felt like a stone looming over her organs.

"How about here?" Slightly higher, around her diaphragm. Worse there. Illumi pulled away very quickly when she whimpered, choking on a nauseating ache.

Temperature. Puke. Was she sick? She'd had the flu before. But it had been nothing like this. Black and white dotting her vision, like little amoebas dividing and sparkling in washed out swirls, Chiara stared at Illumi in search of the right questions to ask. Many came to mind. But she couldn't seem to speak. Could hardly even breathe without her ribcage quaking. After a long while of nothing, she hung her head miserably, gawking into the quilted pastels of the blanket in her lap.

Saying nothing too, Illumi leaned towards her. With his palm, he brushed the hair off from her forehead, cupping the meeting point of her skin and hair so softly that he hardly seemed to be touching her at all. Then, he peppered short, light kisses between her temples - from one side to the space between her eyebrows to the next, leaving Chiara with the sense that maybe she was actually dead or dying. Maybe he wasn't Illumi at all but some celestial icon fashioned into the nicest, final thing: the awkward, sweet kiss she didn't think she'd get more of; that doll-like smile when he pulled away to meet her eye.

"I'm glad you're awake now," he said and stood, pressing his hands into his pockets. "You're going to feel better soon-soon. I promise."

"How-"

"Chiara!"

It was Tadashi. He came scurrying into the room, pushing past Illumi to clasp at Chiara's cheeks. He stroked his thumbs over her skin, palms warm and clammy and uncomfortably close. Behind him, there came Mommy and Mamma. They seated themselves on either side of her bed, palms to her forehead and lips to her cheeks and fingers through her hair as Illumi receded quietly into the background, tearing away his gaze to wander over the contents of her bedroom.

"How are you feeling, chicken?" Mamma hadn't called her that since she was a little girl. "Better?"

"Dunno."

"You had us all terribly worried," Mommy added.

Chiara blinked at them, their faces hazy as ghosts - dark makeup like chasms where their eyes should have been, lips formless lines of red and purple by their chins. Tadashi circled around the bed anxiously, saying nothing, and it was this funny orbit of his that made Chiara's chest ache with a terrible realisation. "Where's Tari?" she asked, throat tightening painfully.

Mamma stroked her hair. "She left a few days ago."

"Where?"

"Don't worry about that now, sweetheart."

" _No~_ "

"Somebody had to do the job," Mommy said, and tapped the tip of Chiara's nose with her thumb. "The doctor wonders if maybe your symptoms weren't psychosomatic."

"Kei," Mamma murmured. "Not now."

"Mmm. You're right."

"Tari says she's sorry," Tadashi said, clinging now to one of the bedposts. He sounded unusually sheepish, maybe a little frightened. "She knows you were excited for your mission." There was something he wasn't saying - Chiara waited despairingly for an important aside, a telling glance or mouthed words to suggest that all of this was a terrible joke, another bad dream.

She'd failed again. Only her second mission and yet another person had had to swoop in and save her. It didn't matter that she couldn't have helped it - or could she have? Were there signs that she had missed at some point or another? Bad food, walking barefoot on a particularly cold morning; maybe there were any number of things she could have changed to have made all of this go away.

Too late for that now. She stared at Tadashi. She stared past him to Illumi, who glanced over his shoulder at her and seemed to smile. It was hard to say with only the bedside lamps on and her head spinning into a terrible, awful, dejected black hole.

Overcome, she put her head in her hands and started to cry. Any other day, Mommy would have slapped her so hard her ears would have rung and her cheeks would have throbbed. Really, Chiara wished she would - because what more did she deserve? But no. With a sigh, a final tap to the top of Chiara's head, Mommy rose from the bed and padded silently out the bedroom. Mamma whispered soothing nothings into Chiara's hair, planted more kisses down the side of her face before going on after Mommy.

Tadashi tried harder. He came close and slinked his arms around Chiara's shoulders, hand at the back of her neck. "Hey now, Chi-chi, it's okay... Please, please don't cry. Please don't fucking cry - I'm sorry - it's better this way. I promise. It's better this way."

With every ounce of agonising strength she could muster, she shoved him away. Harder than she ever had before, almost hating him. Hating Mommy and Mamma. Hating herself - because what could she do besides fail? She curled herself into her pillow, continued crying even though the force of her tears inspired a burning, violent nausea and a feeling like her chest cracking open.

How long she cried, she couldn't say.

But by the time she stopped, Tadashi had left - and there was only Illumi, seated once again at the edge of the bed and smiling at her with blood-curdling tenderness.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter takes place into the Yorknew City Arc, a few months after Chiara's isolation debacle.

_Present Day_

Even at the best of times, a spooky silence marred the passageways – black stone, torches, their stretch like a shadowy descent into the underworld.

It was even worse when nobody was home, when the frail taps of Chiara's footsteps seemed to be the only sound throughout the whole maze of the house. Not the rain outside as it fell in heavy gusts. Not the butlers busying themselves around the property.

Illumi was gone, Kalluto along with him. Grandfather and Silva were gone too. Urgent jobs in Yorknew City had called them away, something to do with the mafia and a spider and an auction and something, something, something. They had all told Chiara about it – Illumi, staring at her across the pillow, not sounding sorry despite all his promises that he'd make it up to her; Grandfather, over a game of chess and cups of coffee, stubbornly not meeting her eye; Silva, giving her the skull of a rare magical beast (tied with a pink ribbon) as an early gift because, _he's so sorry_ , they weren't going to be home in time for her twentieth birthday.

Of course, Chiara had to remind herself, they couldn't always pick and choose when duty called. And she would have other birthdays. The family business came first and she, having chosen to be a Zoldyck, simply had to be okay with that.

In something of a Pyrrhic gesture, Kikyo had extended an Illumi-approved offer that Chiara join her on a trip to one of the nearby cities. She'd be buying new hats and fans, would flit from boutique to boutique amongst the chill mezzanines and tidy streets of the shopping district. They could sip tea and eat salads at cafés together, titter like girls were wont to do about their husbands and clothing and anything else Chiara may have wanted to talk about.

Was there anything Chiara wanted to talk about with Kikyo?

The very idea of it made her tongue feel like a slug in her mouth.

She would really rather have eaten her own vomit than spend the whole weekend with her mother-in-law in such intimate proximity.

And so with the excuse of a lingering headache and a potential period (Kikyo loved making a big deal out of periods) Chiara stayed home.

_But do write me a birthday list, Chi-chi darling. Anything you like!_

In truth, she _did_ have a headache – the looming blossom of a migraine, slinking lazily from the back of her skull and into her temples like a bored, black animal. It had been there for a few days now, stalking, waiting for just the right moment to pounce: a twinge of the neck too sudden, a too-bright hue to the light.

The matter of her so-called period was another story. With the way Illumi and Kikyo and the butlers had been shoveling food at her, Chiara had put on weight enough to function – as the doctor had put it – as normally as a mid-pubescent girl. But it always came in erratic and embarrassingly short-lived waves. Blood. More often than not, no blood. Cramps. Less often than not, no cramps. The whole thing was very bitter-sweet, because as much as Chiara was disgusted by the idea of periods and feminine hygiene, relieved that she didn't really have to deal with it, she also knew well how much less of a woman she was because of it. Little more than a little girl.

At least though, it was a devilishly easy way to mess with Kikyo.

When Chiara had first found out that Kikyo had the butlers checking the bins for both contraceptives and used sanitary items, she had been mortified. Now she treated it as a game – every month, she cut into the crooks of her thighs with a razor (Illumi never seemed to notice). She bled herself convincingly onto whatever sanitary towels or tampons their bathroom cupboards had been stocked with. The squeeze of scarlet, the crisp pang it alighted through Chiara's spine, were catharsis in themselves; the added absurdity of Kikyo's fussing over the fictional goings-on of Chiara's uterus was simply funny.

Most of the time. Sometimes.

 _Anyway_.

Down the passageways, lethargic with boredom, Chiara padded along blandly. Her gown hung open, listless and loose, while the stone floors lay chilly against her soles. It was almost lunchtime – between meals, she had nowhere to be and nowhere to go, and simply for the sake of having something to do she counted down the minutes until the butlers would bring her food.

She hated eating. She hated how everybody fed her candied, condescending little compliments like she was a child. And now that Illumi had at last stopped enforcing the rule that someone be there to watch her eat, she did nothing to resist the temptation of feeding her food to Mike or throwing it all up afterwards. Indeed, she slipped right into the old ways Illumi had worked so hard to quell. It was her single harmless freedom: emptying her insides so that, somehow, she could feel a little less empty. Weightless. As though she could simply be blown away like a dandelion on the breeze.

(And then she always hated herself afterwards, because Illumi loved her and trusted her and she was hurting him as much as she was hurting herself.)

(Did she want to stop? Yes, but also not really.)

She meandered around the same corner she'd passed minutes beforehand. Down the next passageway. Walking in circles. How many weeks until Illumi came home? How long until the rain outside stopped? Little more than ten minutes until her next meal. Tap-tap-tap of her feet against the floor.

Seemingly out of nowhere, someone appeared behind her – she felt the presence first, heard the footsteps after.

It was Gotoh.

He stood formally with his hands in his back, eyes glinting hard and metallic behind his glasses. "Apologies for the disturbance, Chiara-sama" he said, obviously and stupidly aware that he was disturbing nothing at all. "There is a phone call for you, if you should like to take it before your next meal."

"A phone call?" Chiara smiled at him dubiously. "Another one from the man saying he's a friend of Illumi's?"

"No, Chiara-sama. From your brother. Illumi-sama has indicated that you may take it, should you wish."

Something painful caught in Chiara's chest, and for a long while she didn't answer.

"Would you like me to have the call directed to the family room before your next meal is brought through?"

She took the call.

The telephone felt strange in her hand, the receiver cold and bulky. At the other end of the line, there was only static, a snowy silence that dragged on into oblivion: nothing, no one. Waiting – for a sign, a sound, a voice – Chiara ran her fingers anxiously down her neck, scratched at the bumps of her throat in distraction. Tadashi called so seldom. He hated dealing with the Zoldyck butlers. And on the rare occasion that he did call, it was because he was drunk. Slurring, screaming, swearing over the line, speaking profanities about Illumi and making Chiara's heart rise up into her throat, bitter as cud and tragic beyond comparison.

Silence. Nothing, no one. And then there was someone, a voice so familiar and so close it was gut-wrenching. Tadashi said her name uncertainly. He sounded impatient, incredulous, but sober. Thank god, he was sober. And Chiara, feeling everything inside of her unknot ever so slightly, said his name back.

'At last!' Tadashi declared. 'I've been trying to get those butlers of yours to put me through for ages, birthday girl!'

Chiara smiled, twisting her fingers into the cable. "It's not my birthday yet," she said. "You're two days too early."

'Huh? What do you mean I'm _early_?' he cried teasingly, made a noise like a laugh. 'What happened to the Chiara who always insisted on having an entire freaking month dedicated to her birthday? Don't tell me living with the Zoldycks has made you so boring.'

"No. I'm just not a kid anymore."

'You're only twenty. You're basically a baby.' She could just imagine the way he'd roll his eyes; the curt, peculiar way he'd shake his shoulders. 'You know,' he said, 'I was actually thinking the other day about how much you used to love birthdays – remember for your sixteenth, when just the three of us spent a weekend at the beach house and went absolutely bat-shit in the town? Well, at least, Datari and I went bat-shit, you were pretty well-behaved, but that was also the first time you got _really_ drunk and oh my god, Tari and I knew we were going to be in so much trouble with– _'_

"Dashi," Chiara cut him short, only half-regretful. "I have to go for lunch in a few minutes."

'Oh.' A pause. 'Oh, I didn't realise you were on a tight schedule.' Another pause. 'Does Illumi have something nice planned for you?'

"No. He's not here."

'He _isn't_?'

"No."

'Oh.'

Things went quiet for what seemed an age. Chiara sucked on her bottom lip, thought up any number of excuses to hang up but couldn't find the will to voice them. Eventually, hoping he wouldn't hear, she asked, "Are Mommy and Mamma there with you?"

He sounded sorry. 'No, it's – it's September. It's Datari's month to be at home, so… you know…' He cleared his throat. 'And anyway, I just finished a job so I'm actually at a hotel at the moment. Which is why I wanted to call you, actually. I thought I'd come by Dentora for a few days, see the sights and all.' A nervous laugh, making Chiara's throat bounce painfully. 'Obviously, it's not exactly all that convenient for you to leave Kukuroo Mountain and I know that. But if you could, it would be really great if you could meet me somewhere. I don't know. I'm arriving tonight. The towns around there are really quaint and cute, as far as I remember, and we could just hang out and–'

"I don't think so, Tadashi," Chiara sighed. "Things are… complicated."

'Why?'

"They're always complicated."

'I'll be really close by. Even if it's just for a day or two.'

"I'm sorry."

'Okay. Well… okay.' Hearing him like that, Chiara almost wished he were drunk instead. At least then he'd shout. He'd fight to see her and would say something to make her cry. He wouldn't sound as hollow as she herself felt. 'Well, I guess I better go then,' he said. 'If you change your mind, I can come find you. Mkay?'

Chiara shook her head, speaking quietly, "I can't, Dashi."

'Alright. Happy birthday. I love you.'

"Bye."

She hung up, wondering why she'd bothered answering in the first place – knowing she'd just end up feeling sick and sad, that the conversation wouldn't end up meaning much.

Maybe it was just that she'd so badly wanted to hear his voice, to feel for just a moment like he was close by. Chiara understood why Illumi didn't want her speaking to her family… But could she really pretend that she wanted the same? She'd come to blame her mothers. She'd come to loathe Datari for all the months and years of her duplicitous, self-serving manipulation. But Tadashi – his letters and his phone calls – made strings pull inside of Chiara's ribcage, made nostalgic flowers bloom around the bones, beckoning to a feeling she'd long since buried.

She slinked away and back towards the bedroom, stewing over his suggestion. _Even if only for one or two days_. But Illumi would never allow it. Chiara couldn't even think to bother asking. Already, he'd been more than obliging by allowing her to take the phone call; if he were to find out she was double-taking on the idea of seeing Tadashi, he'd be furious, maybe a little heartbroken – because after everything, she still seemed to doubt that he knew what was best for her.

In the bedroom, she curled herself around the pillow in a dejected, lonely embrace. Illumi's smell had yet to vanish from the bedsheets, his shape still vaguely dented into the mattress, and with a desperate longing, Chiara buried her face into the material and inhaled until her lungs were aching.

He'd come home soon.

He'd come home soon.

He always came home eventually.

And then he'd leave her again. The next day. The day after. As much as Chiara counted the days until he returned, she also seemed to count the days until he'd leave again: the platonic, inevitable truth of having married a Zoldyck.

Behind her, the bedroom door shrieked open. She sat up against the headboard and was jolted to find Milluki, holding her tray and shutting the door behind himself.

Her insides crawled. "Milluki-kun?"

He said nothing, only glared at her and marched over to the bed. He may as well have thrown her lunch – a creamy pasta, fatty and oily and slopping around in its bowl – across the sheets, dropping her plate harshly and clumsily. "Mamma told me to make sure that you eat," he said, puffing. Just standing there.

Chiara stared at him.

She wasn't sure if Milluki was even allowed in their bedroom. Illumi had never told her. And for a moment, she panicked. She stared at him, throat tightening uneasily about itself as though held by an iron fist. Something was strange – his face was puffy, red as a poppy; he was breathing hard enough for the stench of his breath to knock against Chiara in a repulsive shock. Bitter. Potent, sour like a burning stomach and yet carrying with it the smell of spice and something much stronger.

"Have you been _drinking_?" she asked him.

" _Huh_?"

Some years ago, during one of her visits to the mansion, Illumi had left Chiara alone for the night to go train Killua. Unsurprisingly, Chiara had been bored. And Milluki had been bored. And in a wobbly attempt at entertaining themselves or bonding or _something_ , the two of them had stolen a bottle of whiskey from Grandfather's alcohol cabinet. They drank almost all of it in Milluki's room – bathed in the blue static of his computers, under the watch of his already-gluttonous collection of figurines. Dizzy and dull, they'd spurred each other on in awkward, false-friends murmurs. It had been easy, calm, until Milluki had kissed her.

She'd been on his bed and he'd come over from his computer chair, garbled words falling into her lips as he'd clasped her hair and practically opened his mouth wide enough to swallow her whole. She remembered how her body had gone limp, everything draining away just as it had when she'd been with her first target in Yorknew. The smell of sweat, now mingling with the violent aroma of alcohol. His immense, repulsive bulk suddenly unfathomable. His tongue moving so fast Chiara was sure he'd managed to touch the back of her throat before she'd scrambled away. Out from his bedroom. Tumbling through the Zoldycks' labyrinthine hallways – everything blurry, everything slipping out from under her feet in her sick, horrified rush.

Remembering it now – as she always did when she was alone with Milluki – Chiara felt herself coil deeper into the headboard.

He narrowed his eyes at her, scowled sourly. "Eat your food."

"I'm not really hungry," she said, sounding more polite than she felt. "I'll eat later. You can go."

Brusquely, Milluki grabbed the fork from the tray and thrust it into the pasta. He held it towards her. Foul white sauce dripped onto the sheets. "I said _eat_."

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh, I bet you aren't."

"And I don't want you in my room, Milluki." She slid away from him, climbed off the bed to stand on its other side – inching away from Milluki, keeping her gaze unflinchingly on him despite the prickly warmth that rose to her face. "You've been drinking. I can tell. So please, just go now. Mother doesn't need you to watch me eat. You know that as well as I do… Illumi has said–"

"Sit down."

"No."

"Huh? _I said–_ "

"You can't tell me what to do."

Disconcertingly, he smirked. Unsteady. Uneven, like a child's scrawl across his face. "But you know what I _can_ do, _nee-chan_?" He pointed a piggish finger at her. He spoke lucidly and with painful command, clear though it was that he wasn't thinking clearly. "I can tell Illunii what you've been doing with your food since he stopped watching you," he said. "Huh? Would you like that? I can tell Illunii how you throw it all away or feed it to Mike or vomit it up afterwards. What do you think he'll say?"

The walls seemed to recede into nothing. An eerie numbness prickled through Chiara's bones. She blinked at Milluki, lost for words. "How – how do you–?"

"How do I know? Doesn't matter. The fact is, _I know_. I've been watching you." He licked at his lips absently, wiped his forehead with his wrist. "So you'll do what I say. Or I'll tell Illunii you've been bad. Now, sit."

Cautiously, Chiara sat. Lips screwing into an unhappy grimace, innards turning in on themselves like socks, she tried hard to maintain some pretense of composure, of sobriety even though she felt her very soul slipping from her body and fleeing to all corners of the room. Knowing the way Milluki looked at her only meant bad things. What did he want? What could she say? Clinging to her last shreds of control, she held her hands up in something of a frail show of placation. "Milluki-kun…" she murmured. "Illumi isn't going to like–"

" _I'm not scared of him_ ," he just about shrieked. The fork was in his hand again, and before Chiara could pull away, he'd plunged a mouthful of pasta against her lips. "Eat. Chew."

She ate, feeling revolted by herself. Feeling her skin crawl at the soft, rubbery texture of crushed food in her mouth and Milluki's unfocused gaze on her face as he lifted the fork to his own mouth and sucked on it. Bulging neck over his shirt collar. More dewdrops of sweat at his hairline. He shoved a new glob of pasta towards her before she'd even had the chance to swallow. Forcing the serving against her mouth, crushing it into her chin until she had no choice but to scoff down half-chewed food to accept more.

"Chew with your mouth open."

She shook her head.

"Do it, nee-chan," he sneered.

She shook her head again, kept her lips firmly shut until she swallowed. It was like she could feel the stodgy clump ooze down her oesophagus. It settled heavily in her stomach, leaden and taunting. Coated her insides with oil. Begged for her finger down her throat.

Disgusting, but less shocking than the swift force of Milluki's hand across her cheek. He slapped her, hard, like she deserved it (did she?). Not particularly painful. Just… shocking. Her neck spun on her shoulders and was then forced back into place as he grasped her chin and yanked her to look at him. There was spit in his mouth's corners. Swampy circles of sweat in his armpits. When he spoke, his breath was acrid across her face. "You would have been my wife," he gasped. "You stupid skank. You skinny _bitch_. I would never let you get away with as much as Illunii does."

Nobody had called her a skank before. Only Datari had called her a bitch. It felt as ugly as Milluki had surely meant for it to be.

He got two more forkfuls of pasta into her mouth in rapid succession. He pinched her nose shut with one hand, squeezed her jaw with clawed force in the other so that each time she chewed it was slow and agonising.

It was just eating. It was just force-feeding. And even if she hated it, it shouldn't have felt so filthy.

Milluki couldn't do anything more than this. Illumi wouldn't allow it.

But Illumi wasn't here.

She tried to push his hands away but those fat, trembling fingers only dug harder into her skin. Swallowing was painful. It scathed her throat raw so that she couldn't bear to speak. Worse still when Milluki's hand went around her throat. When his face came close enough to hers that he was just about breathing into her mouth – hot, curdled, heavy breaths that made Chiara's stomach burn and contract. She wouldn't even need to put her finger in her mouth; the taste and texture of Milluki alone had her swimming sickly.

"I know a lot of things Illunii doesn't," Milluki muttered. "And I'll tell him. I'll tell him if you say anything about this."

Just eating. Just force-feeding.

And yet, with a profoundly personal horror, Chiara shut her eyes and hated herself. She'd allowed this. She deserved this. Milluki stuffed her mouth full until she was gagging; he laughed at her, pulled her hair, called her names, all the playground antics of a much younger boy. He'd hurt her like this before. It was nothing new: he'd been pinching her arms and pulling her hair since they were little, he'd said horrible things and looked at her in horrible ways time and time again. And nobody had stopped him. Including Illumi. Including Chiara herself. And who was she to ask him to stop now? She allowed it and she deserved it in a crucial and fundamental way because she was useless and disobedient and so so sorry, sorry, sorry.

When the pasta was finished, Milluki threw the fork into the bowl and left in a stumbling, slurred huff. Despite the aching fullness of her stomach, Chiara felt gouged out and empty as a cored fruit. She clutched herself against a sneaking chill, wiped the mess from her mouth with her sleeve. This was nothing new, she reminded herself. This had all been done to her before and she'd accepted it all before and had gotten over it all before. What did this matter now?

She staggered to the bathroom. She scraped her hair back, shrugged her gown off her shoulders and threw it across the mirror so that she couldn't see her face when her knees met the tiles, when her finger went down her throat (and suddenly there was nothing to be felt but the shrill relief of being emptied and of having thin morsels of control returned to her).

It was in the weightless, dizzy afterglow that Chiara returned to the bedroom and pulled out an overnight bag from the back of her wardrobe. Clear-headed and light-limbed, she threw in shoes and dresses enough to last her two or three days - away from Milluki, away from the mountain.

She'd make it down the town that evening and call Tadashi from a payphone. Nobody would know until it was too late.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By 'one year later', I mean a year after the second to last chapter, where Chiara first got sick.

_One Year Later_

In recent years, it had become rare for Illumi to accompany Father on jobs. When he'd been little, it had been a singular, thrilling thing – yes, a job was just a job; but there had been something special about it, shadowing Father, an occasion for which Illumi had harbored a constant, petulant expectation and excitement.

Now, there was simply no need for it coupled with a greater, more urgent concern with granting Killua the luxury of the experience. Illumi was okay with that. A job was just a job.

However – much as he was embarrassed to admit it – something inside of him always flitted and fussed with a nostalgic, childhood vibrancy whenever he recalled these important milestones with Father. The first time he'd seen a heart ripped from its ribcage to beat strong and steady and surprised in the unwavering expanse of Father's palm. The first splatter of blood in stunning contrast to Father's fair hair. How, with a gentleness close to affection, Father had closed Illumi's hands around a knife – for the first time, cold and practical and precise – to slip it across a target's throat.

Illumi knew now, at seventeen, that these were not the memories other children had with their fathers.

But these were memories he cherished, fervently and silently, like trinkets and trappings locked away in the private little museums and music boxes of his mind. A job was just a job. But when that was all Illumi knew – when he could only dare to breathe the same air as his father when he was being of use – the job-which-was-just-a-job took on a certain, rose-hued life. Softer than the shade of blood, but just as rich.

And so it was with a faint but familiar, unignorable buzz through his chest that Illumi had jumped at the offer to accompany Father once again, all these years later.

Oddly, it was not a difficult nor a particularly important job – quite frankly, there turned out to be absolutely no need for Illumi to have been there at all. Tasked with trivialities of gathering intel and cleaning up, he found all the reason and all the time to question his being brought along. The longer he thought on it – how funny! how strange! – the more he came to expect that perhaps this would turn into some sort of drill-like training. Guard down. Excitable little boy. He'd make a perfect target, and Father likely knew it, probably had plans for it. Alas, as the week wore by, it became increasingly less likely. Illumi was left to wonder over it ever more, a little confused and riddled with anticipation.

Either way, he also relished it, watching with a reverent delectation from the sidelines as Father dispatched his target simply and cleanly. Illumi knew all the techniques, all the right tactics – likewise, he knew that he himself was good at them. However, like other children were awed by acrobats and animals in a circus, he found refreshed delight in the way Father did his work. It was a level Illumi could still only grope at, years away and beaming with a chiseled, cultivated glamour.

 _My dad is my hero_ , he'd once overheard another child say, somewhere on a crowded street in a long-forgotten place. The phrase had stuck with him; and it was at times like this that he glimpsed its meaning.

After the job, Father and Illumi went to a steakhouse near the airport. Father ordered a whiskey and Illumi ordered a soda – not because he wanted one, nor because he wasn't allowed to order a whiskey too, but because this was the way it had been for years. A tradition. Always, at the end of the job, Father would have something very adult like whiskey or sake or beer while Illumi would order off the kids' menu (he didn't do so now – he knew how silly that would have looked – but still, the funny compulsion was there).

"Cheers, Illumi."

"Cheers."

They drank awfully quickly, ordered another whiskey and another soda as well as cheeseburgers for dinner.

The place was bustling with a typical mix of busy families, fussing with little ones, and nondescript businessmen who kept their heads down and drank several beers with their meals. There was a hazy, golden light that melted smoothly into the evening outside – everything slightly smoky and dreamlit with the hour, an energetic murmur of voices and kitchen-noise and distant traffic reverberating in the wordless veil of space between Illumi and Father.

Their food arrived on big, overstuffed plates. Illumi fondled a fry but didn't eat, staring instead at Father as Father stared back at him.

"Something's been on your mind," Father said and, to Illumi's surprise, smiled small. He leaned his cheek onto his hand, raised an eyebrow promptingly.

"It's nothing, Father."

"What's nothing?"

Illumi shrugged, dropped his head from side to side in a show of nonchalance. "I'm only confused about why you had me come along this week," he said eventually. "It was such a simple job."

"Why do you think I wanted you here?"

"I thought for training."

"Mmm. Not quite, although you could say it's something along those lines."

Things went quiet between them once again. Illumi could tell Father expected another answer – he was leading up to something but wanted Illumi to get there first, to let Illumi arrive at the conclusions as though of his own volition. He thought for a moment longer, and then blinked across the table, realising the answer should have been obvious all along. "It has something to do with Killua?" It always had something to do with Killua.

Father offered an approving hum. He took his whiskey glass, swirled the honey-hued contents broodingly. After a sip, he said, "How do you feel Killua's training has come along, Illumi? Do you think he'll make a fine asset to the family?"

There was only one right answer. "Killu is going to be the most talented out of all of us."

"Mmm. I'm glad to hear you think so – I agree." He gestured for Illumi to eat. "I have been watching Killua very closely for the last few years. You and I both. So you know how well he has progressed, how quickly he's bound to overtake you and me and everybody before us. Now, this is where things get tricky, Illumi. There is no tactful way to say this." Father was hardly concerned with being anything but blunt anyway. "Grandfather and I have been in discussion," he said, "and we've come to the conclusion that Killua will be a more suitable heir to the family business."

This struck Illumi. He paused mid-chew on a French fry, not entirely sure he'd heard right.

Yes. Killua was brilliant. And Father was not mistaken – he would overtake them all at some point. Illumi had always known that; after all, _he_ was the one who'd seen Killua flourish, all these years. He'd been the one to whip him. Feed him poison. Electrocute him. Withhold comfort through it all. Illumi had seen firsthand the gorgeous, enviable potential that seemed to ooze through Killua's very pores. But the Zoldyck family and the business were _his_ birth rite, weren't they? Surely that was almost owed to him.

( _No_. Illumi swallowed on his French fry. _Nothing was owed to him_.)

Voice low and placating, Father kept his pale gaze fixed on Illumi. "Do you have anything to say to that?" he asked, his words full of unspoken implication. "I'd be interested to hear your thoughts."

"No, Father."

"Are you quite sure?"

Illumi stared. "Yes, Father."

But this wasn't enough. Gaze attentive as a panther, Father frowned at Illumi in search of more.

"Umm-" Illumi looked down. "What I mean is, my only concern is what's best for the family." Which was the truth. He never thought of anything but what was good for the family. And yet, until now, the thought of who'd inherit it had never crossed Illumi's mind. It had seemed so obvious. But now it only seemed ridiculous. "And Killua is the best choice for heir, I think." Which, suddenly, was also the truth.

Because in a crucial, crashing moment of chagrin, Illumi realised he was lacking. In what, he couldn't say. But there it was: eventually, Killua _would_ overtake him. It was the stark, inevitable truth of the matter. And there would be absolutely no way in the world for Illumi to catch up, nothing for him to do other than to press his brother onward, to hold him up from behind as the surpassed were wont to do. He took another fry, pressed it blankly to his lip. "Thank you for telling me, Father."

"I knew you'd be agreeable about it." In a fluid movement, Father reached across the table and patted the top of Illumi's head (gentleness close to affection). The weight of it seemed to fall straight through Illumi's body, provided none of the comfort it otherwise might have in the face of his surprise. "You've always been an excellent asset, Illumi," Father said. "It's essential that we all support each other in everything we do. Killua will rely on you more than anyone one day. And you'll be there for him, of course. It will be your most important job."

Illumi took another fry. "Of course, Father."

"Good. That's that then, for now. There are some other important affairs that will need sorting – you've been practicing imbuing your needles with your Nen, correct? No, rather, we'll talk about that when we return home." Another deep sip from his whiskey. A bite into his burger. "Our airship will be leaving soon. Eat up."

In a sort of daze, still processing the conversation and struggling more and more to swallow the meaning in it – like the contents of a bad dream, piercingly clear in isolation and yet, together, moulding into some frightful incoherence – Illumi didn't finish his food. He walked through the bright, chill stretch of the airport with his hands buried deep in his pockets, his eyes half-lidded with a numb, heavy feeling. Father was right. Father was right. He, Illumi, was owed nothing and Killua was the perfect choice and he, Illumi, was happy and could expect nothing more than what was best for the family. Father was right. Father was perfectly right.

And yet, staring down into the city lights below as they twinkled to life against the inky purple night, Illumi could only think how badly he wanted to say that he was disappointed, and that he was confused, and what was the point of everything now if the one thing he'd spent his life working towards wasn't even his anymore? His. Only his. Now Killua's and no longer his. Rightfully, but painfully, like something essential – a heart, a lung – had been snatched from the handmade edifice that was Illumi's mind and body.

There was nothing to be done.

The only thing he could possibly think he wanted now was to see Chiara.

She'd cut her hair recently, and she wrote in her letters that she hated how it looked even though Illumi was sure she still looked like an angel. Nowadays, she was sleepy-eyed from all the medicines her mothers had put her on, dopey and pliable. She hadn't gone on another job since Yorknew – she kept getting sick – and had grown paler than the moon and, without as much training as the twins, finer than a magnolia flower. Fingers thin and breakable in Illumi's, hidden beneath tables or under pillows. Freckles popping like spice-coloured stars against her skin's whiteness, traced through the inconspicuousness of a sideways glance.

She tasted peculiarly like cough syrup and black tea whenever Illumi kissed her. And he kissed her as much as he could, in secret, the two of them rounding watchfully into unknown corners of her family's estate and his family's mansion so that they could steal chaste, anxious, precious moments together in the obscurity. The taste of her had been branded onto Illumi's memory – along with the daring feel of her tongue, the weight of her hand in his neck and under his shirt – and roused vivid, pleasant daydreams that carried on well into the night. It surprised Illumi every time how small she was, her forehead just barely reaching his collar bone, so that every time he slithered his arms around her waist to kiss her, she would have to rise up onto her very tiptoes with all the curious, careful grace of a gazelle.

All of this, until he would have to leave her to spend his allocated time with Datari, the two of them avoiding meeting each other's eye and listening blandly to their mothers plan their wedding.

But what of that now? If Illumi didn't need to bother with providing heirs for the Zoldyck line, then was there even any point in marrying Datari anymore?

Considering this, he looked pointedly at Father, thoughts a muddy convolution, fogged with cumbersome feeling. He didn't breathe. He hardly ventured to move as the words took on a precarious form in his throat, thoroughly improvised and unexpected to even Illumi himself. When at last Father felt his gaze, turning to look at him curiously, Illumi said in a quiet, clumsy spew, "I don't want to marry Datari."


	23. Chapter 23

Everything smelled of autumn, wet foliage wafting thickly amongst the morning fog. Through such mothy light, hued blearily between powdered blue and white, the Flaminia mothers waited like specters in the front doorway. Their silhouettes loomed obscure and expectant. Illumi could feel them watching before he could see their faces – it prickled down his neck like a flush, reached deep into his stomach and around his lungs in a fluttering, restless flurry.

Grandfather and Father were quiet alongside him, their feet noiseless down the garden path as they stared stolidly ahead. Were they themselves affected by the swelling sense of significance about this soft, quiet morning? Or was it only Illumi's heart thrumming bird-like in his ears?

He struggled to understand the coldness with which Kei and Dahlena greeted them – too shrill, sugary sweet like the trill of breaking glass. They pursed their lips pointedly, offered their hands – freshly manicured, nails like jewel-toned talons, calloused palms slimy with cream – for Illumi and Father and Grandfather to take. They always shook with surprising strength (they didn't bow or kiss cheeks; that was a greeting reserved for Mother, it seemed). This time, Illumi wondered if they were purposefully squeezing hard enough to crush bone.

They weren't happy.

Father had said they probably wouldn't be.

It was obvious in the way they smiled sharply at Illumi like he was a petulant child. In the dismissive swish of their wrists as they gestured to be followed, leading the way to a dimly lit sitting room – coffee was set out on the table in floral porcelain, sandwiches plated delicately on a crystal platter. It was a cold morning, frost glittering on the windowsills, and a fire had been lit in the hearth beside them. It cast an ominous, orange luminescence about Kei and Dahlena's needlelike expressions.

They all sat. A maid came in to pour the coffee, handing a cup to Grandfather first and then to Kei and Dahlena and then to Illumi. Father didn't drink coffee. Illumi's throat felt too knotted to swallow, and so he left the cup to grow cold in his lap.

Kei cleared her throat. Voice clear as the chink of her cup on its saucer, she said, "The twins are on their morning run around the estate. Otherwise I would have had Datari here with us."

"That's alright," Father said.

"And Chiara," she looked cuttingly at Illumi, "is still asleep. She likely will be for a while still."

"Of course, she doesn't know you're here," Dahlena added. "Or why, for that matter."

Kei hummed, sipped. A half-moon of pink lipstick stained the cup's rim. "We've told neither Datari nor Chiara about your… request. We thought that perhaps this would be a good opportunity to clear up what's made you decide to deviate so drastically from our original agreement." She raised an eyebrow. "You'll forgive me for saying, but after almost four years of arrangements, it seems rather strange that you would want to alter everything now, Silva, Zeno-san. We've already drawn up all the necessary contracts and the prenup."

Clearing his throat, Father met Kei's viper-stare without reserve. "As I mentioned to you in our phone call, things have changed somewhat," he said. He leaned forward, elbows balanced carefully on his knees in a show of openness. "You see," his voice was calm, chilled, "we've made the decision to name Killua as my primary heir rather than Illumi."

The Flaminia mothers both looked to Illumi, as though he had any explanation to give.

They blinked, eyes frosty and hard to read – considering him, considering the shock of the news. He understood that look. Like they'd just been slapped, breath knocked from their lungs. Things were quiet for a long time, a precarious, simmering air settling about the space. Kei recrossed her legs, sipped her coffee again, dress falling in a waterfall of purple ruffles over the edge of the couch. Dahlena stood and spirited past the coffee table to stand over Illumi. She took his face in her palm, turned his head side-to-side as though assessing a piece of bitten fruit. Father and Grandfather watched this curiously, unquestioningly, and said nothing still when Dahlena made a disgruntled noise.

She patted Illumi's cheek – a condescending little gesture – and without moving away, turned her attention to Father and Grandfather. "Has Illumi proven to be lacking in some way?" she asked.

Father didn't sound perturbed. "Killua is simply the better choice."

Kei cut in, "You understand how this comes across as something of an insult, don't you?"

"Kei–" Dahlena sighed.

"Illumi and Datari's marriage was premised on the long-term success of both our families. And now that you've decided Illumi is second-rate, you still expect us to hand over our daughter to you? Just like that?"

"Nothing like that, Kei. After all, Chiara-chan isn't your heir," Grandfather said. "You have nothing to lose."

"I stand to lose my daughter. And for what?"

"Kei. My plum." Dahlena turned away from Illumi. He couldn't see her face, but he could hear the quiver of emotion in her voice. And then it was gone, but a ghosting echo in his ears. "Nothing's been decided yet," Dahlena continued, looking back to Father and Grandfather as she spoke. "Kei is right, of course. Everything until now has been arranged for our mutual benefit. Now that Illumi has no standing as your heir, what does our family have to gain from this marriage? Very little, though you surely know that already."

In a graceful cloud of material, Kei stood from the couch and went toward the fireplace. There was a bar trolley nearby. As Dahlena continued to speak, Illumi watched Kei – she poured what looked to be vodka into a crystal glass, drank it down in one smooth movement before pouring herself more.

Grandfather noticed, but pretended not to. Father only listened to Dahlena.

"And Chiara?" she said. "Obviously, I can hardly imagine why you'd want her. I know you have a very sweet friendship with her, Illumi, but that's besides the point. She's hardly an assassin. We haven't been able to figure out what's been making her so sick. Naturally, you have to understand why Kei and I are both–"

"Suspicious," Kei completed, chasséing back into her seat. She balanced her glass on her knee, tapped its rim with her finger.

"Yes. That. It seems very odd that you'd have any interest in Chiara."

At this, Grandfather chuckled. "This seems like a good time for you to say something, Illumi," he said, as though it were all a game. A terribly fun one, at that. He sank back into his seat, swirled his coffee languidly. "You're the one who asked for this, after all."

Once again, the Flaminia mothers hooked their attention to Illumi. He gazed at them, ill-prepared, hardly having expected to actually partake in the conversation. He brushed his hair behind his ears, shrugged his shoulders, waiting for the right words to strike him. Nothing came, and so he only managed to say, "I don't need her to be a good assassin. I don't want her to be an assassin at all."

Both Kei and Dahlena pulled funny expressions.

"Then what do you need her to be, exactly?" Kei asked.

Illumi thought again. "Nothing other than what she is."

Silence. Illumi felt with renewed awareness how everybody stared at him, the weight of the attention making him backtrack anxiously – had he said something wrong? He didn't think so. What he'd said had been true and simple and clear. Absently, he glanced to the fire as it shivered and writhed.

To his surprise, Kei began to laugh; the sound of it, how closely it resembled Datari's awful cackle, shook Illumi harshly. "My god, you sound just like your mother," Kei said, throwing herself backwards into the seat and drinking deeply from her vodka. She laughed again. "Who would have thought that you'd raise a romantic, Silva."

Father didn't reply. But meeting his eye, Illumi could tell he was a little surprised too.

"Anyway," Kei said. "I don't think this is going to work out."

A cold blade of dismay plunged through Illumi's heart. "Why not?"

"Marriages aren't arranged for no reason."

"But it's not for no reason."

"What? Is there something I'm missing here?"

"I want Chiara to be a Zoldyck."

"A sweet sentiment, Illumi." Kei's smile was glacial. "But I'm not concerned with what you want."

"And Chiara?"

"My, my," she cooed sourly, "you are a talkative boy today, aren't you?"

He hated her. More than anyone. Her words, the way she looked at him, burned through Illumi with vile acidity. How could she make those eyes – same pooling greys, same willowy lashes as Chiara's – look so stupidly spiteful? Those fine, dusty cheeks; the upturned bow of her mouth. Where had it all become lost in translation, so darling on Chiara and yet so very dour on Kei? Staring, irritated and a little bewildered, Illumi dropped his head to the side. "Maybe I should just ask her myself." He stood, discarding his coffee cup on the table. "That would mean it isn't exactly an arranged marriage, right? There should be no problem then."

Dahlena scoffed. Kei's features greyed in displeasure.

Illumi didn't venture to look at Father or Grandfather. Whether they would be angry or shocked or something else entirely, Illumi couldn't decide – however, they made no move to stop him, and he took that as a sign to continue. He made to move past Dahlena before she clasped his shoulder, hand heavy and masculine.

"Alright, slow down now," she said. "It's fine if you want to ask her yourself, alright? However, we'll discuss it with her first. You can't go barging in there just like this. She's still asleep. You'll confuse her terribly, and that won't make for a fair answer."

"No, I'm going now."

"I said–"

"Actually," Grandfather cut in, standing too, "Illumi makes a fair point. Chiara-chan would do well to be the deciding party here, and it would probably be best if she doesn't have anyone influencing her decision."

"She's a stupid little girl," Kei said bitterly. "What do you think she's going to say?"

Grandfather smirked. "Are you scared, Kei?"

No response. With narrowed eyes, familiar greys gleaming venomously, Kei drank the remnants of her vodka. Sleeve swishing dramatically, throwing her hair from her neck, she screwed her lips, exchanged a pursed and ugly look with Dahlena. Neither of them said anything. But the hand dropped from Illumi's shoulder. And the two of them glanced away in something of a bold, bitchy dismissal. Rigid, pulse spiking to a crashing violence, Illumi strode past, leaving behind him an unwieldy silence.

He wound through the passageways with a single-minded anxiety. This was not how he'd expected it to go – he hadn't been sure what to expect at all, really. But it had happened so quickly, the feeling had overtaken him so suddenly and ferociously, that it seemed this was the only possible way forward. Prying the door open slowly and soundlessly. Invading the sanctuary that was Chiara's bedroom – dark, warm, floor chaotic with pillows and girly shoes and other flowery relics – to scale the distance to her bed.

The lamp went on, and Illumi stopped, stood there. Blearily, hair mussed in a gathering cloud about her jawline, Chiara blinked at him. Circles of deep colour splotched her cheeks. Her lips hung parted and pouty, slightly wet. She'd always been a light sleeper – Illumi didn't know exactly when or why he'd discovered this. Sluggishly, she wiped at her eyes, squinted at him again before realising that he was really there. He was in her bedroom – bland, blossomy wallpaper cast in low lamplight shadows; pillared bed and frilly pillows like something out of a princess story – now so overwhelmed by the smells and sights of her that he couldn't bring himself to move. To say something.

"Illumi?" she murmured – oh, how lovely she made his name sound when she was still half-asleep! A pajama strap fell off her shoulder, and only for a moment did Illumi glimpse a curve of naked skin before she pulled the bed's plush covers about herself. "What are you doing here?"

He blinked at her.

"Illumi?"

"We're going to get married."

Plain and clear and true.

"Huh?"

"I mean…" Maybe not so clear, then. "Well, you see," Illumi muttered, refusing to lose her eye, "this is… You know, I think I'm going to sit down."

Twisting herself into an upright position, Illumi plopping himself down at her feet, Chiara clutched the bedding over her shoulders, face peering out wide and bemused and delightful.

"I want to get married," he said, tongue too thick in his mouth. "To you though. Not to Datari. And you see, things have changed slightly so that now we can get married. You and me. We don't have to worry about keeping things secret anymore. We're going to get married." He nodded, not fully realising how clumsily the words spilled from him until they were already out in the open. "Yes. There you go. That's it."

She made a choked sound. "I don't understand."

"Yes. I'm sorry. I don't have a ring or anything like that."

"That's not what I mean."

"Oh, okay. Wait. I know." Limbs numb and gangly, Illumi slid back off from the bed to face her. He got down onto one knee, as he knew he should have done from the first, and took Chiara's hands. They were like little pearls, hot and smooth. Illumi was surprised to find that he was shaking. "Is this better? Like this?"

"Illumi!"

"What's the matter?"

"I just woke up!"

"Okay. And?"

She sounded frantic, and it scared him a little bit. "I don't understand what you're doing!"

"But – I think that's clear. I'm proposing."

Her hands retreated from his to press themselves to her bright, blushing cheeks. She shook her head, shut and opened her eyes with endearing exaggeration. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?" she murmured. "That must be it. Mommy and Mamma would have told me about this first. I'm dreaming." Voice textured with sleepy relief, she laughed, lying down again. "You're not really here and I'm going back to bed now."

Illumi remained on one knee, watching her pretend to sleep. His head throbbed. His hands still shook, lingering comically where she'd left them at her bedside.

After some seconds of pregnant silence, she rolled back onto her side to face him. The sleep was gone from her eyes, now lucid and gleaming with concerned thought. "I am dreaming, right?"

He shook his head.

She sat up. Her arms dangled delicately in her lap, bruises near her elbows, fine muscles faintly shadowed by the lamplight. Why did she look at him with such fret? All flushed, brow scrunched up as paper. With familiar softness, a sigh of a touch, she brushed her fingertips across Illumi's forehead and into his hair. "I'm confused," she said at last. "I just ~ I'm so confused."

Adoring, he leaned into her hand, relished the clammy warmth of her palm. "Sorry."

"What do you mean, we can get married?"

"Just that."

"But what do you mean?"

Illumi sat next to her on the bed. "My father has decided to name Killua his successor," he said. "I'm not responsible for the Zoldyck line anymore."

There was a similar look in her eyes as the one Illumi had seen in her mothers' – she chewed on his words, seesawing between disbelief and doubt and surprise. She sucked on her bottom lip, dropped her head questioningly to the side. "But why would he do that?" she asked eventually, full of tender disquietude. "You've worked so hard. And Killua is only your little brother. Did you not understand him right, maybe? Your father, I mean. Or is this maybe just a test?"

"No." Illumi shrugged. "Father has really chosen Killua."

"But that's not fair."

"It's not about what's fair. It's about what's right."

Chiara narrowed her eyes at him. Puffy. Plum shadows beneath. "Something can't be right if it's unfair," she said. Casting away her blanket, she shuffled into his side, and in a way Illumi had come to know well and be tremendously fond of, she cupped his face in her hands like a goblet. "Aren't you upset?" she asked speaking in a low whisper. "With your father? With Killua?"

For a moment, he thought of telling her how, initially, the news had stabbed him through the gut with an ice cold treachery. How that first night he had felt smothered by an inexplicable emptiness – what now? what now? But no. Not untruthfully, Illumi told her instead, "I'm happy, actually."

"Why?"

"Lots of reasons. For one thing, Killua's the best choice for my Father to have made, and I'm glad that my family will fall to good hands." Then he smiled at her. "I'm also happy that we can be together now." Then his smile waned. "I'm very happy. Aren't you too?"

She frowned. "I don't know. I want to be. I am. But Mommy and Mamma–"

"You only have to say yes."

"To what?"

"Surely I don't have to get on one knee again."

"Oh. That."

"Do you not want to marry me?" His heart plunged at the thought.

To his surprise, she smiled small. Laughed a bird-chime little laugh. "Silly~" she murmured. Her arms went around his neck: cheek to cheek, smell of sleep and medicine. "You. You really can be dumb sometimes." Though she didn't sound entirely convinced, voice quavering with dull drama, there was trace enough of that familiar teasing that allowed Illumi's spine to unwind. She nuzzled his shoulder, inhaled deeply against him. "Of course I want to marry you," she said. "I think about it all the time."

He held her too, cradling her and imagining the heavy falls of their heartbeats aligning. He breathed her in, allowed the significance of the moment beat against him with lustful force. At the very least, she would be his, and apart from her and his family, there could be little more in the world that he'd ever want. Relieved, wistful, Illumi kissed the fragile column of her collarbone.

"I think I love you," he told her.

And she giggled quietly, "Same."


	24. Chapter 24

_Present Day_

The sun was beginning its slow bleed into dawn when Illumi called the mansion. Chiara would still be sound asleep at this hour and usually he hated to wake her, but Illumi had promised that he'd be the first to wish her happy birthday – twenty years old, ever less of a child and a little bit more of a woman.

She had been sour and sulky when he'd told her about the job: turning away from him in the bed, saying nothing as he'd apologised and powdered the back of her neck with kisses. _H_ _e'd make it up to her. He'd buy her anything she wanted._ She could have cake for breakfast – frosted thickly in vanilla and sprinkled with lavender – and she would be allowed to take phone calls from whomever she pleased (Illumi knew Tadashi had already contacted her; the butlers kept him well-informed). These promises had seemingly been of little conciliation though, and Chiara had only shrugged her shoulders pertly at Illumi.

No matter. She always forgave him eventually – a few days away, within which the combination of loneliness and longing would soften her heart. This was always how it went.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Two or three times too many. And when at last Gotoh picked up, greeting flat and full of knowing, Illumi could hear the subtle hint of an edge in his voice.

"It's me."

'Ah,' Gotoh said. 'Good morning, Illumi-sama.'

"Put me through to the birthday girl."

'Certainly, Illumi-sama.'

There was a long stretch of silence on the other end, punctuated by peculiar shuffling and murmurs. Nothing out of the usual at first, until the muffled sounds became louder, more agitated. Illumi could make out words as they crackled faintly across the line. _Have you checked–? But where–? For goodness sake. Are you sure?_ The wait lasted a few minutes, and when at last Gotoh returned, Illumi was clutching the phone with an engorging sense of foreboding. 'Illumi-sama,' Gotoh said carefully. 'We are unable to locate her. Chiara-sama is not anywhere in the mansion.'

* * *

In a small café in the next town over – white light through big windows, smells of coffee and nutty pastry, rose clippings in pottery vases – Chiara stared across the table at her brother. He drank absently from his third cup of coffee (black with too much sugar, as he'd always had it) and tried to busy himself with small talk. His hair had gotten longer, slung over his shoulder in a wispily curling ponytail. He looked older, handsome, a lot more like Mamma than Chiara remembered. Occasionally, his eyes flitted to her plate, where she picked at her croissant as one would tear tissue without once lifting the pieces to her lips. She nodded or shook her head blandly in response to his questions. She felt her legs quivering beneath her seat.

It wasn't that she wasn't happy to see him. It wasn't that she didn't feel bad for making things awkward – watching his face crumple whenever she shrugged, hummed, didn't bother replying to the things he said. Truly, everything inside of her wanted to throw her arms about his shoulders and to hold him tightly. To be held by him, like she was nothing but his little sister once again and like he was the only one in the world who could possibly scare away the miasmic anxiety that sank its teeth into her heart and lungs.

But that same subtle dread kept Chiara locked firmly in place – the epiphany that every second she spent with Tadashi she was betraying Illumi, and that every move she could think to make would only make it all so much worse.

She should never have left the mountain. She should never have left the mountain. Stupid girl! _She should never have left the mountain_.

Illumi would be sad. Illumi would be furious. Illumi would lock her up in their bedroom again and would probably refuse to speak to her and would leave for another job in a matter of days, weeks, months without any promise of coming back. _She should never have left the mountain_. Would he be able to forgive her this time? Maybe he'd be able to understand – it was her birthday, and she was lonely, and after Milluki had come into their bedroom and hurt her as he had she was also scared. Scared of the helplessness she felt, of her feebleness, of how little she'd been able to do against Milluki and against her loneliness and even against Illumi himself, who left her like it was nothing and then came back whenever he pleased and promised to look after her but always, _always_ , left a growing chasm in her chest.

He probably wouldn't understand. Because he loved her the best way he knew how – Chiara knew that – and he was doing his best to make her happy – Chiara knew that too.

And yet.

Tadashi gestured to one of the waitresses for another coffee. It came in the same white cup as before, steaming hot and smelling bitter even as he stirred in three sachets of sugar. The bowl on the table would need to be refilled soon. Chiara stared at it fixedly, considering the empty sugar packets Tadashi discarded and the way her own coffee sat cold and half-empty.

He cleared his throat. "So…" Sipped lightly from his coffee, set it back down. "How's Illumi?"

Chiara nodded slowly. "He's good. Very busy."

"He's not with you on our birthday."

"He had a job to attend to."

"That's shitty."

Narrowing her eyes, Chiara clasped her cup to keep the tremor from her hands. "It's not just him," she said. "Father– I mean, Silva and Zeno are also on a job. Kalluto too."

Tadashi looked sorry, though he sounded disdainful. "You think that makes it any _less_ shitty?"

"I'll have other birthdays. It's not a big deal."

"Chi-Chi." He leaned forward, touched his fingertips to hers. When she did nothing to respond, only looking at him with a vague reluctance, he sighed and withdrew his hand. "I'm happy you could come see me though," he said, and smiled. "I know you said you didn't want to talk about it, but I'm really curious about why you'd be allowed to leave the mountain without your butlers. Illumi likes to keep a very close eye on you, doesn't he?"

 _Shouldn't have left the mountain. Shouldn't have left the mountain_. "Yes," Chiara muttered. "He takes good care of me."

"And he doesn't really like us being in contact."

"No."

"Is that part of taking good care of you?"

She pursed her lips, irritated that Tadashi would turn the conversation on her like this. She didn't know what she'd expected in coming to meet him – he had always hated Illumi, he never made any secret of it, even reveled in showing off his antipathy through insults and lies – but some part of her had hoped that this wouldn't have to be about Illumi. That she and Tadashi could simply have a nice, civil day together like normal siblings would do. Coffee and croissants for breakfast, shopping through the town's little souvenir shops and boutiques for pretty clothes and antiques, dinner and drinks in the evening (Tadashi would buy her a margarita when she'd insist on water, and she'd love that he wouldn't listen to her; she'd have one or two margaritas too many and then maybe they'd laugh about memories so long-gone they were little more than dreams now, faded at the edges and glossy, no longer so painful, with age).

Indeed, coming to meet Tadashi, she had hoped that their time wouldn't be marred by agendas and the aftertaste of relationships gone sour. She didn't want to talk to him about Illumi. She didn't want to talk to him about a lot of things. But now, she was reminded that seeing him through anything but the light of bad memories was an impossibility. All the secrets he'd kept. All the lies he'd told. All under the guise that he – and Mommy, and Mamma, and Datari – loved her.

Swallowing on the feelings that threatened to pour from her throat, Chiara dropped her gaze from Tadashi's.

In her silence, he sighed again. "You're not happy," he said, voice tinged with intention like a slap through the face. "You're not happy being a Zoldyck. You've gotten so thin, and even though in all your letters – or at least, in all the ones I _used to get._ Even though you always insist that you're fine and doing well and so on, you also talk about all the things that they say and do to you and… For fuck's sake, Chiara, they are _hurting_ you." She could feel his eyes sear into her, could hear the swell of hate in his voice. "And it's not just now that you're married either. I know you don't want to believe me, okay? But Illumi–"

"Shut up, Tadashi," she spat, more venomous than intended and withering further in her seat. "Just stop. Please."

"But Chiara–"

"You know I will always believe Illumi before I believe you. And Illumi says he hasn't done the things you keep accusing him of."

"Think about it. Just think about it. Illumi wants to control you. Him and his family. It's why he never lets you leave and why he keeps making you sick."

"No," Chiara said. "He's the one who's trying to make me better. So that we can start a family and be together properly. _You_ and Datari were the ones who made me sick."

Tadashi flinched like he had glass in his stomach. "We were only doing what he asked us to do."

"You were doing exactly what you wanted to do. You thought I was helpless. And weak. And useless."

"No. No, well, yes, but it's not like that – we really did want to protect you." Tadashi took another sugar from the bowl, poured it into his coffee cup and drank without stirring. He didn't look back up at Chiara. "But it was also that we didn't have a choice, okay? We would have done things differently, I swear, I wish we could have, but Illumi was blackmailing us. He threatened to tell Mommy and Mamma about–"

A potent rage fluttered through Chiara's veins. "You only want to push everything onto Illumi to make yourself feel better for the secrets that _you_ kept," she said. "You and Datari are the ones to blame. Both of you are cruel and disgusting and lied to me for so many years. Even if Illumi _was_ blackmailing you… You can't… I just…" Anxiously, Chiara shook her head. She didn't want to talk about this. Not with Tadashi. Not with anyone. She should never have left the mountain, should have locked the bedroom door and simply gone to bed. Sighing, trembling, she sipped from her coffee and relished the bitter sting of it in her stomach. "I just want to have a nice birthday," she said. "Can you give me that? No talking or anything… Can you just be with me for today? Like nothing's wrong? Like we're okay?"

Still and silent over his coffee, Tadashi blinked at her. He looked so sad. He looked so hurt, eyes dewy and blue as frost. Slowly, like it was a strain, he nodded. "Okay. We're okay." Glancing to his coffee and then back to Chiara, he said, "I think we're all done with breakfast. How about we head out now and I'll buy you something really nice? Anything you like." A small, boyish smile. "Maybe we go for a walk through the park as well. I'd really like to get a photo of the two of us somewhere pretty."

Smiling too and feeling as though she would crack under the weight of its falseness, Chiara nodded.

Soon, she'd have to go back home. Either the butlers would find her first or she'd make her way back to Kukuroo Mountain alone. It would be easier to say goodbye if the butlers found her; but it would be better for everybody if they didn't. Smoother and simpler and cleaner.

Standing, legs numb and leaden, Chiara followed Tadashi to the counter to pay. And when they left the café, stepping out into the bare glare of sunlight and streets bustling with morning activity, Chiara reached for her brother's hand and held it as a child would do: tenderly, desperately, and with raw, unforgiving vulnerability.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everybody. xx

They had been engaged for six months now. Illumi was happy.

He got to see Chiara as much as he wanted. In between jobs, she would come to visit the mountain for days at a time; they'd do all the same things they'd done before – long walks through the forest, plucking weed-flowers and poisonous mushrooms, putting needles in the heads of small animals and watching them do tricks – except now it was with a profound sense that all of it was specifically _theirs_. Their habits. Their shared amusements. What was hers was his and what was his was hers. Now, Illumi could hold her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world: frank and honest, her fingers woven cleanly between his, her attentive hums rising like the ring of cicadas as he traced his thumb over the bridge of her knuckles and his lips over the papery width of her fingertips.

Fiancés. The word hadn't had such a wonderful, clear sheen when it had been him and Datari. Back then – how long ago it seemed! – it had felt two dimensional and grey, a cold soup of formalities and expectations, inspiring as much feeling in Illumi as a fly squirming on a cloud-lit windowsill.

But now! Now it alighted a whole new potential, an imagined future unfurling vivid and desirable. Illumi liked to talk about their wedding: what sort of dresses Chiara would wear and what sort of vows she would make to him (to which Chiara would giggle, reminding him that she was still only fourteen – almost fifteen – and that their wedding was still some years away). He liked to talk about the sort of big sister she'd one day be to Killua and to Alluka and to Kalluto – who all loved her already, calling her _nee-chan_ and always wanting to play, fondling her hair and fussing over her tiny wrists and bringing her gifts in the form of butterflies clasped in their fists or dirty soccer balls or snacks stolen from the kitchen.

She didn't have an engagement ring. It seemed unnecessary. But along the same vein, Illumi would put flowers in her hair or tie strings around her fingers or bind his laces with her shoes' ribbons. All of this to show that she was to be all his. The first and only thing that was truly _all his_ – and though sometimes he thought to ask her if she wanted to get married as much as he did, if being a Zoldyck would make her happy enough that she would want nothing else in the world, Illumi stopped himself short whenever a quiet, formless anxiety inevitably took hold of his heart. What if the answer was no? It wouldn't be. Surely not – not when she looked at him like that, all the glitter of rain on wet leaves in her smoke-smooth, dove-coloured eyes. But maybe. Just maybe, she too would slip from him through some unforeseen slip up. He'd fallen short before, in various unspoken ways, and it had cost him his birthright. What would become of him if she were to find him lacking too?

Feverishly, Illumi refused such lines of thought. Chiara was his. He was hers. They were _them_ , _we, us_.

She _would_ be Chiara Zoldyck.

Likewise, the Flaminia name would be dispelled from the very fibers of her body. Every time she got sick, vomiting up blood and toxic shades of bile as Mother's poison laced its way around her organs, she became a little less like Kei and Dahlena and her siblings – a little more emptied of them, everything inside of her withing for Illumi to fill her back up again. And so he would do, one day soon, when he could protect her always and keep her nestled safely away like a secret.

He hated to see her suffer in the meantime. He really did. But it was necessary – so many times, when the poison had worn off and she was well enough to start training, her mothers would still consider the possibility of sending her on a job. Still! Even though her ankles were like fine china in her shoes and her aura fizzled out and in like the ripples on unsettled water. Illumi couldn't bear the thought of it! He'd lament nightly, to the point of distraction. He'd lie awake over the thought of losing her. And then he'd go to Mother, ask her for another concoction of the poison. And then he'd send it to the twins – _you know what to do_.

And they'd do it. Because they knew as well as Illumi that Chiara was fragile and precious and incapable of the sorts of things that needed to be done.

Also because they had no other choice.

But there was no need to dwell too deeply upon that.

Anyway – as much as Illumi's heart bled over her quivers and cries, his lips to her forehead and cheeks while she sweated through another upsurge of sickness, he would not stop now. Could not. Until she was his completely, this was the only way to keep her safe, to maintain his hold over her while the likes of her mothers still held sway.

It was why Illumi also began to poison her during their visits. He'd only done it once or twice now, and only with minor doses: milligrams injected into her dinners, a drop on his tongue before he kissed her. The extra time it afforded him was a luxury he could hardly deny (why should anything else have been expected of him when he had been denied of so much already?). A few days more to be with her was all he asked. A little while longer to see her and hold her before she was to vanish from him once again. It was never enough. The longer they were together, the more he wanted. One more morning. One more night for her to sneak into his bedroom and crawl alongside him in bed, where they would whisper across the pillows to each other and grin as though they'd gotten away with something mischievous and wonderful – as they did tonight.

She breathed hard through her nose, blinked blearily with a low glimmer beneath her lashes. Sometimes, her medicine made her dazed to the point that she fell asleep almost as soon as she climbed under the bed sheets with Illumi – hand squashed beneath her cheek, feet all tangled with his.

"You're pale," Illumi told her, and brushed a gathering of hair from her temple. "How are you feeling? Sleepy?"

Staring at him, flushed and fondling the edge of the pillow, Chiara offered a sheepish little smile that made her eyes seem all the heavier. "So, so," she said. "But I don't want to go to bed just yet."

"You should probably sleep soon though."

"Mmm."

Illumi touched the tip of her nose, trailed his fingers down to the hollow at the base of her throat. "I don't like that you have to leave tomorrow."

"I've been here for two weeks already," she said.

"You've been sick."

"And you're probably sick of me by now."

"No." Hand beneath the covers and against her waist – thin layer of silky pajama between his palm and her skin – Illumi pulled her closer. "I've been thinking about this, actually. On the whole, considering how much more often we see each other now, it would probably be much more sensible if you stayed here permanently. With me. On the mountain, I mean. Not _here_ here."

At this, she snorted gently. "Silly."

"No, I'm serious."

"My mothers would never agree to that. They already don't like that I come to visit you on my own." With a flighty, joking air, she slipped her own hand under Illumi's shirt – she'd been doing this more and more often, traveling her fingers up and down the bumps of his ribcage and spine in a tentative, innocent exploration. "I like it a lot though," she said. "Being alone with you like this. Even if we'll get in trouble for it."

"You're going to be my wife one day," Illumi said in turn. "It shouldn't matter whether you come to live with us now or later."

"It does matter though."

"Why?"

"Well…" She thought for a moment. "I don't know. Just does. Otherwise my mothers wouldn't make a big deal about it."

"They just don't trust you."

"I don't think that's it."

"It is. They hardly ever let you make any decisions on your own, and when they do it's because they know they have no other choice. Like now. They probably only let you come to see me because it's what's expected, not because they care about what you want."

For a while, Chiara only stared at him. The smile faded swiftly from her face and coiled into a dewy expression of concern or displeasure, her hand continuing to wander the length of Illumi's torso. She considered him absently, pursed her lips as a low hum of thought rumbled delicately out from her chest. When she spoke again, it was with faint resignation. "I don't like it when you talk about my mothers like that, you know," she said. "It's fine for you to disagree with them or not get along with them… But why do you have to make it sound so, I don't know, nasty? They care about me. They're doing their best."

She clasped so insistently to these naive beliefs, refused to acknowledge the damage her mothers dealt her. Illumi smiled, taking her wrist and lifting her hand out from under the covers. He kissed her palm, where the scars zig-zagged mottled and jagged like crease lines; then he moved down to the underside of her wrist, veins luminous beneath the thin, milky skin – here were two ashy burn scars from the time Kei had been too drunk to properly hold her whip and so had resorted to branding Chiara with her cigarettes instead. There were one or two more scars like this: in the crook beneath Chiara's armpit, behind her ear. Illumi had glimpsed these by chance, pale discolourations in secreted places.

Whenever he brought them up, Chiara was quick to point out that he too had scars. Lots of them. Scrape marks up and down his back, needle marks in his arms. His parents did exactly the same sorts of things to him as Kei and Dahlena did to her.

But it wasn't the same thing. Anyone would be able to figure that out. Illumi's scars carried purpose – they were methodical and measured, every wound intended for his betterment. His scars were no different to the red marks left in school books or the stamps on the bottom of certificates. They were indications of strength and skill, that his body had been cultivated to withstand more pain than any normal teenage boy would ever be able to dream of. His parents wanted the best for him and for the family, and his scars were proof of that. Evidence of their concern for his development and competence, his efficiency and quality.

Chiara's mothers just liked hurting her. They used pain as punishment and found any reason at all to dole it out, training-related or not. The wounds they inflicted were random and messy, angry markings scattered around the precious length of Chiara's body like glitter thrown on a child's painting, and they had no purpose whatsoever.

The Flaminia family were good assassins.

But they were not on the same level as Illumi's family because they taught pain as something to be feared. To be avoided.

He put his hand back under the covers, back onto the jut of Chiara's hipbone where he allowed his thumb to graze a thin sliver of flesh beneath her shirt. "I'm sorry if I've upset you," he whispered. "It's just that… I would never hurt you."

Chiara smiled again. "I know."

"I won't let anybody hurt you ever again."

"You always say so."

"It's the truth."

Tangling himself in the sheets, Illumi rolled to position himself above her – his forearms on either side of her head, his heartbeat throbbing against the walls of his chest to join together with hers. She blinked up at him, perhaps a little embarrassed, and smiled into his lips when he lowered himself to kiss her.

They'd gotten good at kissing. It became easier and easier all the time, slipping continually into a wordless, eager pattern – mouths opening to welcome each other's tongues, warm and deep, her arms around his neck or hands against his chest while he touched his fingertips to ever more daring places. The back of her neck, at first. Then that soft undulation between her ribs and hips. Then the small backs of her thighs.

They weren't supposed to be alone in each other's bedrooms. Mother treated it as something of a taboo. Although Illumi hadn't understood why at first, it was kissing Chiara like this that made him half-realise – the squirming feeling it ignited in his stomach, the way that feeling rose up in vivid heat throughout the rest of his body and dropped down into his groin so that everything began to feel too close, too tight. He knew how to resist pain. He'd never been taught about these sorts of feelings, and even though he was sure he wasn't supposed to be entertaining them, he couldn't possibly bring himself to stop. Didn't want to. The sort of weakness it inspired in Illumi was probably why they weren't supposed to be alone together in each other's bedrooms – though the feeling remained just the same when they kissed out in the garden or when their fingers sought each other out beneath the dinner table.

At least, nobody had caught them so far (Chiara was very good at sneaking in and out of places without being seen), and until somebody launched in to stop them, Illumi would be happy to keep kissing her like this. He liked the feel of their pajamas scrunching between their bodies. How, every now and then, his stomach would rub against hers and a shiver would make his spine go tight over the soft, squishy feel of skin on skin. He liked the way it felt when their hips settled against each other, how it felt to press his groin alongside hers in a way that made her breath hitch a little bit against his lips.

Everything inside of him knew that they probably shouldn't have been doing things like this. That they were edging a little too close to some sort of trouble.

His parents had spoken to him about sex before – clinical descriptions of what goes where and what gets hard and why. They had told him that sex served a very functional purpose, but that it was also supposed to feel good. _Urges_ , they'd said. That was why he and Datari, still engaged at that stage, might have gotten _urges_. But the perfunctory nature of the discussion combined with Illumi's overall repulsion towards Datari had made it seem more like a parent telling a child that eating their vegetables was supposed to feel good. And so Illumi had quite deliberately pushed the memory from his mind.

 _Urges_.

Was it an urge that made him relocate his mouth to Chiara's neck and suck the skin until it turned red?

Was it an urge that made him slip his hand under her pajama top to feel the surprising tautness of her stomach, to inch riskily close to her chest without ever quite summoning up boldness enough to touch her boobs?

Thinking about it that way made the whole thing seem stupidly executive. And in that, it made it a little awkward. So Illumi didn't think about – accepting instead that the whole thing happened so naturally, so easily, it couldn't have been anything so ominous as Mother and Father's so-called _urges_. There was only Chiara sighing mildly as Illumi nuzzled his face into the crook of her jaw, the juncture between her collar bone and neck. The smell of the bed sheets and her hair and her flowery, subtle perfume. There was only the way his bedroom's dimness, illuminated by a lone bedside lamp, magnified the heavy feeling of the kiss and inspired a dull, melting sensation throughout all Illumi's bones.

She was his. It wasn't simply an urge. It was a fundamental truth that made Illumi want to sink deeper into her than a body was probably capable of. Kissing was wonderful and not enough. Holding her so that she could hardly move from him was wonderful and not enough. He wanted more of her, all of her for himself, and kissed her with a greedy, vehement pounding growing louder in his chest.

They never quite did more than that, and after a while it ended as quietly and uneventfully as it began.

She didn't leave his bed, curling into him with her head in his lap and her arms dangling loosely about his frame as she fell into a frozen, heavy sleep.

It felt like hours that they lay there, Illumi running his palm over the back of her head while swallowing down upon the ache that moaned its way through his body. He liked her like this – he liked her in all ways, but particularly like this – and sometimes, such as tonight, he would get the butlers to dish her out a slightly stronger dosage of medicine before bed so that she would sleep with deathly, dreamy peace next to him.

Four more years was such a long time to wait before marrying her.

Careful not to disturb her position, Illumi leaned over to reach into his bedside drawer. There was nothing inside of it except for a single needle, thin and golden, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and placed inside a small black box. He'd kept it there for a while now, had planned to use it but had never quite brought himself to do so. It was the same sort of needle he'd put into Killua's head the previous year under Father and Grandfather's watchful eyes. There'd been no unforeseen side effects, no unfortunate consequences, and Killua had woken up the next morning entirely unaware that anything had been done to him. The potential of it played often on Illumi's mind, made him ever more greedy and possessive. Also relieved, that such an option would present itself to him – he'd always be there for Killua, always a part of Killua. It didn't need to stop there.

He took the needle from its box, holding it up between his fingers so that it caught the light. Its was almost imperceptible against the tip of his tongue as he licked its length, the flare of Nen in its tiny shape subtle but undeniable.

Tenderly, adoringly, Illumi cocooned one hand against Chiara's head in his lap. He held her there, stroked his thumbs across her skin's feverish, seashell whiteness. She was so beautiful. She was so vulnerable. She was his, and he would never let anybody hurt her. This wouldn't hurt her, she wouldn't feel a thing, and he would be with her always.

"I love you," he said quietly. "And you love me. You need me. You'll only ever need me. You are my everything and I am yours."

Then he angled the needle over the delicate furrows of her forehead, and with a deft tap of his fingertip, it sank in smoothly through the flesh and bone.


	26. Chapter 26

**Hello, everybody!**

**After much thought, I've decided to discontinue this story. Things are getting hectic and I feel it's time to move on. Thank you to all those who have followed along and commented! Your feedback has meant so much to me. <3  
**

**Just so that no one is left dangling, here is the outline of where I'd planned for this story to go:**

* Yes, Illumi did poison Chiara, with the help of his mother (who concocted a special poison which attacks the organs and then 'dissolves', rendering itself untraceable by doctors and the like) as well as by the twins (they snuck the poison into her food).

* Illumi emotionally blackmailed the twins after realising they thought the same way he did about Chiara and her inability as an assassin. As was to be revealed later on in the story, this emotional blackmail was initiated after Illumi caught the two of them doing the dirty. Naturally, neither Chiara nor their mothers knew the twins were involved in that way, and Illumi dangled it over their heads for years after. Until...

* Datari falls pregnant with Tadashi's baby and they are forced to reveal themselves. Inevitably, this causes violent turmoil in the Flaminia household: Datari is sent away to have an abortion; her and Tadashi are not allowed to be at home at the same time (one of them spends a month at one of the family's other properties, the other at the main estate, and then they swap); Chiara is mortified that her siblings could do something like this _and_ keep it a secret from her (Illumi uses this horror to his advantage in order to alienate her further from her family).

* In the meantime, he falls ever deeper in love with Chiara and continues to poison her. As they get more and more involved in each other's lives (#littlefiances), Illumi becomes more and more paranoid that something's going to go wrong and she's going to leave him, regardless of the needle he's put in her head.

* Datari starts to go mad. Literally, just gets absolutely fucked up. She tries to tell Chiara how Illumi has been manipulating her, but naturally Chiara refuses to believe it, insisting that Datari is only jealous that she, Chiara, can have love and she, Datari, can't (which is also true). The relationship between Chiara and Datari disintegrates at a dramatic rate. The mothers don't know what to do about it.

* Upon Illumi's prompting, Chiara goes to live with the Zoldycks. She gets very close with Kalluto and Zeno and Silva (yay for father figures who are just as dysfunctional as abusive mothers!). Likewise, her previously amicable relationship with Killua crumbles as he becomes ever more disillusioned with his family and as she views him ever more as an undeserving, ungrateful brat. At this point, Illumi decides it would be acceptable to stop poisoning her.

* But she still gets sick.

* And then she gets even more sick.

* (And as it turns out, her organs have been seriously damaged from three years of being fed homemade poison, and now Illumi and Kikyo are like – oh shit. They try to find ways to make her better. She doesn't get better for a multitude of reasons).

* No matter, they get married. And now we are in _Present Day_. After the seen events, Illumi returns from his job and the two of them have a tumultuous argument. But this time, Chiara gets away with it – she tells Illumi about the force-feeding incident with Milluki, which was the trigger to her running away, and he lashes out at Milluki instead of her.

* Lesson not learned on Chiara's part, of course.

* There is one more running away incident, in which she follows Illumi to one of his meetings with the Phantom Troupe (who are still looking for Chrollo and are intending to commission his help). Don't ask what possesses Chiara to do this. Naturally, it incurs a more brutal punishment than before.

* But alas, Chiara is still convinced that Illumi is only trying to protect her, and that the only reason he behaved so harshly is because of his fear that she'll be hurt. So what does she do? Certainly not learn her lesson. Using the fair set of skills in gathering intel and sneaking around she has learned over her lifetime, she escapes the mountain _again_ (despite the increased security, despite the fear that plagues her because the needle in her head is having a freak out session) and finds a way to contact someone who will teach her to be strong enough that she can be with Illumi.

* Enter Hisoka!

* Not a lot of indecision on his part. He's very busy looking for Chrollo, of course (just after Greed Island arc) but if he has time to play around with Gon and Killua, he certainly has time to play around with Illumi's wife. He agrees to train her, but it's not his problem if she dies – and if she bores him, it's not his problem what happens to her when he just ups and leaves. She agrees.

* (Meanwhile, the Zoldyck family is going absolutely ape-shit trying to find her).

* They train, both her physical body and Nen. She's terrible at both initially and her fragility makes for a lot of difficult situations, and there are a lot of times where Hisoka is half-inclined to bugger off. But he sticks around because a) it will absolutely _infuriate_ Illumi when he eventually finds them, and b) because he's endeared by Chiara's ungodly determination and by the strange nature of her aura. They're together for roughly two months. They bond.

* Eventually, Hisoka asks her why she wanted all this, knowing Illumi would likely be furious. Her answer – Because she wants to be with Illumi at any cost. Hisoka's answer – He thinks she's actually just tired of feeling helpless. And he's absolutely right. After so much time with her, he doesn't doubt how much she loves Illumi, but he thinks her feelings add up to so much more than that. She wants more for herself and from herself, but something has been holding her back.

* Hisoka, in a sheerly charmed moment, jams his fingers into her head and removes the needle.

* (Was thinking of peppering in a little bit of feels on Hisoka's part, but remain undecided).

* It is at this point that Illumi finally finds her. And he's livid. And even though he acknowledges that he will likely still require Hisoka's help in the future, there will be repercussions for this incident. Back at Kukuroo Mountain, in amongst a series of highly spirited fights which surprise and horrify everyone in the family, Illumi resorts to the only thing he can think of to keep Chiara in check: he tries to get her pregnant. And he succeeds.

* Bebe Zoldyck!

* The next few months, in spite of absolutely everything, are bliss because the Zoldyck family are professionals when it comes to be inconsistent. Everyone behaves as though nothing has ever gone wrong in their entire lives – Illumi stays home for very long periods, he dotes over Chiara, Chiara dotes over him, Kikyo baby-plans, everybody treats Chiara like glass despite the fact that she is stronger than ever. Yay for Bebe Zoldyck! Obviously, there remains much concern about her health, and every possible preparation has been made to ensure the smoothest delivery possible.

* But then Chiara goes into labour almost a month early. And shit hits the fan. Illumi is away on his last mission before he's supposed to become a father, and the doctors cannot perform a C-section (for whatever reason), and Chiara's organs collapse while she is giving birth.

* The baby is a healthy girl.

* Chiara dies mere moments before Illumi can get to her.

* (He gets in contact with Killua, almost begs him to bring Alluka home – lofty promises that if Nanika can save Chiara, he'll make sure that Alluka is given her freedom, etc.) Killua doesn't realise that Chiara is already dead, and that Nanika cannot do anything.

* In the end, Illumi names his little girl Callula. Initially, he tries to train her like he trained Killua, but the fact of actually having to hurt his child is too much for him – so he takes the complete opposite route and coddles her, spoils her, overprotects her and tries to compensate for all the ways he'd failed with Chiara by taking an even more smothering approach to protecting his daughter. Because Illumi Zoldyck never learns his lesson.

**The End!**

**Once again, thank you all for following along with this story until now. All the best for the new year - may it be full of precedented events and more normality than the last!**


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